


Idiot Coach Kiss

by Ceile



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Cup of China Thing, M/M, Oh well I had Fun, Their Love Is So, There's A Tag For That, i hope someone enjoys this, i know it's overdone, missing scenes fic, tagging rarely helps me, why do i tag?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-10-30 09:54:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 45,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17826512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ceile/pseuds/Ceile
Summary: Yuuri knows his Coach is kind of an Idiot.  He knows Victor Nikiforov loves surprising people.  The Kiss at the Cup of China seemed to fit both of these versions of the Living Legend.However, there’s another version of Victor that Yuuri is also getting to know, the version of Victor that’s only for him .





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for stopping by my Cup of China Thing. I do hope someone will enjoy this, despite my gratuitous self-indulgence for writing it. Thank you in advance for giving this story a chance; it should align with the rest of my stories, but, as always, I've made an effort to work as a standalone. It probably does. Probably.
> 
> Thank you, and please enjoy.
> 
> ~Ceile

When the medal ceremony for the Cup of China was over, and the cheers from the crowd subsided and the congratulatory hugs and selfies were completed, Katsuki Yuuri had time to actually think.

 

Victor Nikiforov kissed him after his Free Skate.

 

Victor Nikiforov kissed him after his Free Skate in front of a packed arena.

 

Victor Nikiforov kissed him after his Free Skate, in front of a packed arena, aired on international media.

 

And no one really said much about it to him.  Well, almost no one. 

 

Phichit Chulanont was over the moon with his first-ever Gold at the Grand Prix series, but he still found time to whisper in his ear:  “I’m gonna scour the broadcast video for that, have a screen-grab printed, and make you a  _ very special _ Victor Nikiforov poster!”

 

“Don’t do that, please,” Yuuri whispered back.

 

“I bet it’s all over Insta…”

 

Well, shit.  It probably was.

 

“I love that you haven’t stopped smiling since too, Yuuri,” his friend added with an arm about his shoulder and a squeeze.

 

Oh.  Was he really smiling like a complete dork?  

 

Probably.

 

He couldn’t find it within himself to stop, though.

 

“Okay, make me the poster,” Yuuri relented.  When one has a box of about ten years’ worth of magazine clippings, several files of internet photos and Victor fanart saved on his PC, and 37 official Victor Nikiforov posters already, what the hell was one more anyway?

 

So, maybe a couple of people said something, and maybe a couple ten or twenty more that Yuuri chose to ignore to keep his faculties about him.

 

Because, well, Victor Nikiforov kissed him after his Free Skate, in front of a packed arena, aired on international media, and Minako-sensei was _ there _ , and his parents and sister probably saw it whilst they watched from home, and, Oh Dear God!, had they held another  _ Public Viewing?! _ , which meant that Yuuko, and Nishigori, and,  _ gasp! _ , their  _ girls! _ , and, guests of the onsen, and,  _ Oh God No! _ , Minami-kun wasn’t going to be there, was he?!, and-

 

“Yuuri!”

 

Ah.  There he was:  Victor. Waiting for him.  Waiting. Cheerfully waiting.  Looking...amazing. Did he look like a man who just kissed another man on live television? Or live internet?  Or in real life?

 

Stop.

 

He really needed to think about this.

 

Or maybe he shouldn’t.

 

It didn’t look like Victor was thinking about it; no, he was waving at him with his gloved right hand, Yuuri’s own skate-guards in his left-gloved hand, and his Makkachin tissue box tucked under his arm along with Yuuri’s water bottle.

 

Waiting for him.

 

And then Christophe Giacometti grabbed his ass for the fiftieth time, quipping in what  _ could  _ have been a double entendre if he squinted:  “You look good with silver on your chest, Yuuri Darling.  Your  _ ‘Coach’ _ seems to think so too.”

 

What Chris said could have been only about his medal, but Yuuri knew Chris well enough to know that it was probably more about the color of that Certain Someone’s hair instead.  He didn’t give the Swiss skater any satisfaction, only continuing his dorky smile and saying “Thank you” as that Silver Haired Certain Someone greeted him at the boards with arms outstretched for a hug while calling his name again, his face beaming with the warm smile that was so different from the ones Yuuri used to see gazing toward him from his posters or from televised interviews.

 

As he was pulled into the hug, Yuuri thought he could feel Victor’s heartbeat, even through his many layers of designer clothing.  Or, it could still just be the residual adrenaline from his own silver-medal performance coursing through his own veins. 

 

Yes, it had to be that, because, surely, he couldn’t really think about that other thing right now.  Not when he was feeling Victor’s warmth surrounding him and a gentle pat on the back before he was released so he could maybe stop blocking the gate, snap his skate-guards on, and maybe let the other competitors off the ice.  

 

Hugs were pretty much becoming a routine.

 

The kiss, though.

 

That was new.

 

And Yuuri had no fucking clue what to do with that.  At. All.

 

“Shall we go, Yuuri?”

 

“Hm.”

 

Yuuri put one foot in front of the other.  He felt the leather of one of Victor’s gloves brush his hand; maybe it was accidental, or maybe not, but it was his hand.  So that was okay. His hand was not off limits to thought, or even touch. He’d been bold enough to lace their fingers together himself, right?  It wasn’t his lips.

 

The overpriced Chanel lip balm.

 

The soft press.

 

The weight of Victor on his chest as they fell to the ice.

 

The gloved hand behind his head to cushion his fall.

 

No.

 

Stop.

 

Hands.  Hands that were now helping to take the burden of the ridiculously sized floral bouquet from his arms so that Yuuri could follow the other competitors into the locker room to remove skates and gather belongings.

 

“Yuuri, we have to get you to the press room,”  Victor said softly, staring down toward him as Yuuri sat on the bench, and as he, apparently, hadn’t had the presence of thought even to begin to remove his skates because of thinking about the soft, pink lips of Victor Fucking Nikiforov and his Beautiful Self and his sweet smelling skin and hair products, a scent now familiar from their time spent together in Hasetsu, and, on this trip, in a Chinese hotel room, and his-

 

“Yuuri?”

 

“Ah!  Yes, yes.  I-I’ll hurry,”  he managed to croak out, feeling stupid and not-quite-ready to take his skates off, not quite ready to face the press, and Oh God!, they would probably ask him about The Kiss, and, then, what in the hell was he supposed to _say_?!

 

Apparently, Victor didn’t think he was making a move that resembled being in a hurry, so, one by one, the items Victor held in his hands were placed upon the bench and on the floor and Victor got down on his knees and started tugging his laces free.

 

“I’m fine, Victor.  You don’t-”

 

“It’s okay.  I laced them up earlier for you, so it should be fine if I take them off too, no?”

 

Oh.

 

Yes.  

 

It was fine.

 

Because when he put them on and when Victor tightened them for him before the Short, and when he slid his foot inside them before the Free, it was fine. 

 

Because it was  _ before _ .

 

Because it was before Victor Nikiforov kissed him after his Free Skate, in front of a packed arena, aired on international media.

 

Shit.

 

But Yuuri allowed it to happen, allowed the laces to be slackened, allowed Victor to gently encircle his ankle with one gloved hand as he pulled the boot off with the other, and, Oh God, did that ridiculous Russian Dreamboat not care that his foot was sweaty and gross and-

 

“Hmm,”  Victor hummed, “you have a little swelling here,” he remarked as he took off one of his gloves and lightly pressed the pads of his index and middle finger onto his ankle.   “Is it tender? Does it hurt?”

 

Yuuri hadn’t even noticed.

 

“No, um, I think it’s fine.”

 

He saw a slight downturn of Victor’s lips, The Lips That Kissed Him, and-

 

No.  Stop.  Take Two.

 

Yuuri saw a slight downturn of Victor’s lips, and then he heard a soft exhalation as the older man leaned over to drag his gear bag closer.

 

“Let’s ice it, just in case, and then full tape later, yes?”

 

“Okay.”

 

The room was noisy; the other skaters were similarly gathering their things, discussing their plans for the remainder of the evening, talking about the next evening’s ex-skate and banquet, and Yuuri couldn’t care less.  It didn’t matter.

 

Nothing mattered when Victor peeled off his thin nylon sock and slapped an ice-pack against his thigh to activate the cooling agent and then pressed it upon his slightly-swollen ankle.  It was barely swollen at all; Yuuri might not have even noticed, but Victor had noticed it immediately, and immediately took care of him.

 

Sometimes, Victor really did act like a Coach after all.

 

Not that Yuuri would ever tell him that.  At least, not yet. Not after the man had him ugly-crying in the parking lot a mere few hours previously because he was an Idiot Coach who should at least know him well enough to know that his anxiety was not exactly a New Thing.

 

But whatever that trainwreck in the parking structure was, it worked.  Somehow.

 

Maybe Yuuri was an Idiot who deserved this Idiot Coach after all too.

 

Victor reached into the gear bag again and brought out the medical tape and scissors with his free hand, his other hand pressing the ice pack against his ankle and Yuuri could only sit there dumbly and watch him.

 

He watched as the silver hair shifted over his Coach’s face as he leaned over the bag, he watched as Victor pulled a bit of tape free from the roll and stuck it to the ice pack, and he watched as Victor wound the tape around his ankle a few times to hold the ice pack in place before cutting the tape free and pressing it to hold it secure.

 

“Just put your track pants on over your costume for now; we can take care of this properly when we return to the hotel room,” he commented, sliding the pant leg of his costume back down to cover the ice pack before he slid off his other skate just as gently.

 

And Yuuri couldn’t speak, the noise of the locker room a dull hum as he watched Victor remove his other sock and make a clicking sound with his tongue toward the bruising on his toes; every skater knows that even step sequences can punish the feet, no matter how well one’s boot is fitted to him.  Victor looked up at him and smiled a little: “You worked so hard,” he said softly, tracing the outline of a particularly angry looking contusion on the metatarsal of his big toe with a single soft finger, and Yuuri could feel the heat of a blush reach his cheeks. 

 

He hadn’t had a chance to really process it before the short program when he was leaning against the boards and Victor was crouched down at his feet and tightening his laces; he was “in character” he supposed, and he took in the sight of Victor kneeling before him as motivation.  Only he could satisfy Victor. Only for the Eros version of him would Victor take such care with his skates and then look up toward him with adoration in his eyes. He only wanted to seduce Victor with his skating, he was the only man who could seduce Victor. When he danced on the blades in the Eros program, he danced only for Victor.

 

It earned him a personal best more than once, that motivation.

 

But, as he sat on the bench and as Victor gingerly put his regular sock on over the ice pack of his landing foot, and as he just as gingerly covered his bruised and battered other foot with the other sock, Yuuri couldn’t help the stirring he felt within his gut.  He tried to push it down; Victor had taken care of his feet a couple of times before, insisting on throwing away most of Yuuri's own supplies in favor of using the ones he personally used and brought with him, and then he ordered more for them both as their practices in Hasetsu continued.  Victor always paid special attention to his feet, and Yuuri’s, as all skaters and dancers should. However, Nishigori had helped him with his feet plenty of times too, and Minako-sensei had been taping him and scolding him and icing him since he was a child whom she had recognized early on had become very serious about ballet.

 

And none of those times ever made his heart race.

 

And he wasn’t in his Eros character now, so Yuuri wasn’t sure what to do about this anymore.

 

It wasn’t as though he could blame it on prepping for the short program.  It wasn’t as though he could blame it on his anxiety before the Free that had him shouting at his Idiot Coach to believe in him more than he believed in himself.   He couldn’t blame the feelings that were shooting through him with every touch of Victor’s hands on the anticipation of taking the ice for the competition.

 

He couldn’t blame it on that, now that the competition was over, now that Victor had kissed him after his Free Skate, in front of a packed arena, aired on international media.

 

As Victor removed his sneakers from the gear bag and slid the first one onto his bruised foot and tightened the laces, another realization dawned:  he  _ trusted _ Victor, that Idiot Coach.  Skaters were very particular about laces.  More than particular, skaters were basically neurotic about it.  After all, no one could get the laces just right other than the person wearing the skates on their own feet.  It was like an unwritten law that no one should deign to adjust the lacing of any other skater’s boots.

 

And yet…

 

It happened so naturally over the last few weeks, that he would allow Victor to lace him up at practice, to tighten his laces for him.  Gentle questions of “How’s that?” and “Do you prefer tighter at the bottom, or around the hooks?” and “Do you use a lace puller?” and “Do you use the last hook?” and “Do you wind the laces around the top hook once or twice?”  

 

At the time, Yuuri just answered the questions, thinking it would be easier and quicker if he just did it himself so they could get to work.  Now, he realized that none of his prior Coaches had ever asked him so many before. Victor did say he wanted to build trust in their relationship, and, over their months together, Victor had learned to tie his boots exactly how Yuuri preferred.

 

There was no greater measure of trust than that for a competitive figure skater; if the boots felt even the slightest bit “off” in competition, it could spell disaster for a clean program at the least, and, at worst, it could lead to injury.  

 

And yet, Victor had been tying his skates for him here and there for weeks now.

 

Perfectly.

 

“Let’s just leave this one untied,”  Victor remarked, as he spread open the sneaker by loosening the laces almost completely so the shoe could be put on while accommodating the ice pack on his ankle.  He tucked the ends of the laces inside the shoe. “How’s that?”

 

“It’s...fine, Victor.  I’m fine.”

 

His expression must have been okay because Victor beamed at him again and nodded briskly, putting the tape and scissors back into his bag and reaching for his shirt and team jacket.  “Okay,” he said cheerfully as he stood, an audible crack sounding out from one of his knees. Oh. Maybe Yuuri should be concerned about that. Maybe he shouldn’t let Victor be so indulgent.  Maybe Victor should think about himself and maybe he shouldn’t be crouching or kneeling or anything even close to helping him with his feet or with his skates or-

 

“Yuuri?”

 

Shit.

 

“Uh, is your knee okay?”

 

Victor tilted his head to the side, and his eyes were still smiling.  “Ah, how embarrassing. You heard my trick knee pop?” he asked playfully with a wink, before leaning into his ear, “Don’t tell anyone, okay?”

 

Yuuri felt what he hoped was a smile tug at the corner of his own lips.  “Okay.”

 

“I’ll wait outside while you take off the top of your costume and put your shirt and jacket on.  Don’t forget to show off that hardware!” he added, brushing his fingers over the silver medal that was still around Yuuri’s neck.  “I’ll go with you to the press room, okay?”

 

“Hm.”

 

Victor nodded again, and the noise of the room suddenly went from dull hum to chatter, and then words, words discussing the result of the competition, Phichit’s laughter, Chris looking for some poor soul to unzip him out of his Rhapsodie Espagnole costume and finding no takers until Phichit suggested that buying all the drinks at the club later would be sufficient payment for him, if Chris could afford it.

 

Chris simply quipped back:  “As if I actually have to buy  _ anything _ when I go out to a club, my Sweet Little Lamb, you have much to learn.  Though, I will cede to your mad eyeliner skills.”

 

More laughter from Phichit rang out, and he ultimately decided that the compliment to his eye makeup was payment enough to help Chris out of his one-piece.  Chris made a point to make some very suggestive and salacious sounds until his coach Josef peeked his head into the locker room to yell at him to hurry the hell up.

 

By this time, Yuuri had put his shirt on and was zipping his jacket, the silver medal heavy on his chest as he put it back on.  He ran his hands through his hair, and leaned down to fish his glasses case and phone out from the outside pocket of his bag. With the limited world of the locker room now in full focus, he placed the top-half of his costume in the garment bag and hung it on the hook inside the locker that bore his name, and he shoved his gear bag inside of the bottom of it, thinking that having both items in the same spot would make him less likely to forget one of them when he came back from the presser.

 

He didn’t want to go.

 

He slumped back down on the bench to collect his wits, and it wasn’t really working now that Victor had stepped out.

 

Phichit was touching up his face and Chris had pulled on his team tracksuit, and, before he could stand up again and slip out unnoticed to reach Victor, those two finished what they were doing and then were suddenly crowding him as he sat on the bench.

 

“Come on, Yuuri!  I thought you were going to keep smiling for me all night long!”  Phichit chirped, “I need to tell my people hello and so do you!”

 

Okay.  He didn’t mention The Kiss.  Okay.

 

Maybe Yuuri could survive this.  Maybe he could not think about it until he was away from the other skaters.  Other people. Friends, strangers, he didn’t care. He needed some space.

 

“My, my.  Victor will be much disappoint if you are not leaving a trail of puppies and kittens and glitter and unicorns behind you as we walk to the other room, Yuuri Darling.”

 

God damn it, Chris.

 

He forced himself to chuckle; even if he didn’t want to deal with it, he couldn’t ignore that what Chris was saying was probably true.  And, god damn it, he was the Silver Fucking Medalist. Why shouldn’t he throw a little fucking glitter around in his wake? Skating was all about the glitter anyway, so fine.   He’d kept Chris in check anyway, and that was something of an achievement in and of itself.

 

Apparently, his resolve to change his expression worked because Chris held out his hand to help him up from the bench.  “Now, that’s much better, Beautiful. Let’s go talk about ourselves and look fabulous, and make every sponsor watching want to throw money at us, mais oui?”

 

“Okay.”

 

Once again, Phichit’s arm went around his shoulder and he leaned in to his ear:  “You were amazing, Yuuri. I’m so happy for us right now, I could burst!”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Was he happy?

 

Of course he was.  He was one step closer to the Grand Prix Final, he was friendly with many of the skaters that were assigned to the Cup of China, he made the podium, and…

 

Victor Nikiforov kissed him after his Free Skate, in front of a packed arena, aired on international media.

 

Oh God.  

 

The three medalists made their way toward the door and they heard their fellow competitors give them a round of applause.  It was a nice group of guys at this competition, and Yuuri had seen many of them before here and there, but he rarely joined in or felt that sense of camaraderie.

 

He was feeling it now, and, wow.  It was really wonderful.

 

Why had he allowed himself to miss out on that in all these years?

 

Maybe he was changing for the better.  Maybe his anxiety could be managed better.  Maybe he wanted to win just a little bit more than he had in past seasons where key competitions brought forth a sense of dread and then self-destruction in the form of failed quads.  Maybe things really could be different from now on.

 

Maybe this season  _ was _ a rebirth of Skater Katsuki Yuuri after all.

 

But what about  _ Person _ Katsuki Yuuri?

 

Was he different now?  Was he opening up more?  Was Victor...something different to him now?  Yuuri didn’t know. He wanted to know, but maybe he didn’t want to.  What if Victor didn’t mean anything more by The Kiss than exactly what he had said:  that it was the only thing he could think of that would surprise Yuuri more than Yuuri’s skating had surprised him?

 

Maybe Victor was just being his Flair For the Dramatic Self, and Yuuri was the unwitting Participant.

 

Shit.

 

Yuuri didn’t want that.

 

He didn’t.

 

He didn’t know exactly what he wanted, but he knew he didn’t want  _ that _ .

 

He forgot to keep breathing.

 

Breathe.

 

What the hell was he going to  _ say _ when the inevitable Kiss Question was asked?!

 

The three medalists met their Coaches in the hallway and walked the short distance to the room where the press was waiting.

 

And then the corridor started to blur.  

  
But he had his glasses on.

 

And then his heart started to skip.

 

But he wasn’t running.

 

And then he felt the gathering of sweat at his temples, and then he thought he could hear a whooshing sound that replaced the chatter of Phichit and Chris and their Coaches and, oh God, he couldn’t go in there, because  _ what would he say?!  _  Those reporters would ask about it.  They’d probably ask about it and forget to ask about his choreography.  They’d ask about it. And then, and then-

 

“Yuuri.”

 

A firm voice, the familiar sound of his name said in that very Russian accent, and the gloved hands were on his shoulders, and he glanced upward to see Victor’s blue eyes looking at him with worry.  He hadn’t realized it, but he had stopped walking, and now Chris and Phichit were patiently waiting for him by the doorway, and Phichit was firmly telling an event coordinator to give them just one damn minute please.

 

“S-sorry, I...I think I’m just tired,” he said to Victor, who clearly wasn’t buying it, but he exhaled and then his expression changed once more to that fond look Yuuri never thought he would ever deserve.

 

And then, a hug.  Tight. Not caring that he was causing even more of a delay.  Not caring when the event coordinator gave up the entreaty to Phichit and started to call out to Coach Nikiforov to inquire as to whether or not they could move this along.

 

Victor released him partially form the hug and snapped his head back to the sound of the woman’s voice and Yuuri could see that he had on one of his Media Darling smiles, the one that Yuuri had learned actually meant: “Don’t fuck with me.”

 

He’d seen him dish that one out to Yuri Plisetsky a couple of times in Hasetsu, and he’d seen it a couple of times when the paparazzi got just a tad bit too close to them as they retrieved baggage from the airport, or when they entered the hotel lobby to check in.  Yuuri was learning the difference between the smiles of “Fanservice Victor” and “Real Victor” and “Pissed Off Victor” really quickly now.

 

“Oh, I am  _ certain _ that the lovely members of the press can wait just a teeny tiny second longer, uh...what was your name again, Love?”

 

And that was all it took to have the woman who could probably be old enough to be Victor’s mother swooning in her “I’m-trying-to-dress-like-a-girl-half-my-age-UGG boots” and becoming suddenly more than willing to give them a hot minute. Chris could be heard sniggering and clearing his throat when the woman threw him an admonishing look.

 

Whoa.

 

Maybe “Savage Victor” was rubbing off on him too.  Yuuri didn’t even know what UGG boots were until Victor made some off-hand comment while drunk at the onsen after dinner one night that they were one of this century’s most heinous of fashion crimes.  Yuuri had always thought they looked cute on the girls in his college dorm, though.  He didn’t communicate that to Victor who clearly was enjoying his rant about them, however.  He just let him go with it and it ended up being a silly evening of scouring the internet for pictures of them, and then of celebrities wearing them, and then throwing shade on said celebrities, with Victor even drunk-texting a couple of them to scold them about it, and then-

 

“Feeling better now?”  his Coach asked, bringing him back to the present.  “I see you smirking. I think you remembered something good.  Care to tell me what it was?”

 

Okay.  Breathe.  He can do this.  He’s the Silver Medalist.  Chris and Phichit were going to be with him in there, and not some skaters he didn’t know well or didn’t like.  It was fine.

 

“She’s wearing UGGs, Victor,”  he said quietly.

 

Victor’s eyes widened for a brief second and then, sure enough, he glanced at the woman’s feet before smiling playfully and leaning into his ear.  “Ah~~ so you can recognize a fashion crime on a stranger but you can’t tell which one of my suits is Prada and which one is Armani.”

 

Okay.  Breathe.  He can do this; Victor always tried to meet him where he was, and, even when it didn’t fully succeed, Yuuri couldn’t help but to feel closer to the man with every attempt.  He tried so hard...Yuuri needed to try a little harder too. “I’m ready, Victor, but…”

 

“What is it…?”

 

“What if they ask about-”

 

“You know,”  Victor interrupted gently as he straightened the ribbon which held his Silver Medal, “whenever someone from the press asks me something I don’t care to answer, I can usually get them to drop it by giving them a cheap laugh at my Coach’s expense.”

 

Oh.

 

_ Oh _ .

 

Yuuri knew that Victor did like to crack teasing jokes about Yakov from time to time; so did that mean…?

 

“You don’t have to answer anything you don’t want to,”  Victor asserted seriously, “Just say ‘no comment’, and move on, and smile for the cameras.  Okay?”

 

“Okay.”

 

He took a deep breath and started walking again, and he didn’t care that Victor had his arm securely about his shoulders when they entered the room, feeling an encouraging squeeze as Victor released him so he could walk toward the raised floor where the medalists would be seated behind microphones.  As he took his seat, he scanned the room looking for that silver hair; thankfully, Victor Nikiforov was always easy to spot.

 

He stood with the other coaches near to the exit and he gave him an encouraging nod.

 

The questions were orderly, and that was good.  They were predictable: that was also good. Yuuri talked about his jump composition, thanked the good people for acknowledging his +4 GOE spin, and he was relieved when the press focused their attention rightfully on Phichit who won his first-ever Grand Prix gold.  

 

Breathe.  

 

Listening to Phichit’s excited answers calmed him and relieved him, and he let the sound of his former roommate’s voice wash over him, thinking his turn over and that he’d dodged a very big bullet indeed.  He sat back in his chair; even the little nudges to his knee underneath the table from Chris didn’t bother him, and he felt bold enough to nudge him back. Their little unseen competition under the table was pointless, silly, and it was exactly what Yuuri needed.  He supposed Chris wasn’t so bad after all; he’d pretty much fan-stalked Christophe Giacometti almost as much as he stalked Victor because the two of them had been off-ice friends for so long, and were often papped together in various gossip sites and fan sites, with sometimes near-scandalous flair.

 

Half the internet assumed they were friends with benefits, and Yuuri assumed it too, but, in the months spent together with Victor in Hasetsu, the subject of Chris never came up.  It was probably better that way anyway.

 

But now, Victor had kissed  _ him _ .  Not Chris.

 

He glanced over toward Chris, and Yuuri couldn’t help but to wonder if the Swiss skater had an opinion on The Kiss.  He knew Victor well, right? He would probably know if Victor really meant something by it, or if he was just being extra or whatever.  Of course, there was no way in hell he was going to ask Chris. That flirt might get the wrong idea, and then he might complain about not being invited again, and then, and then-

 

“Skater Katsuki?”

 

Shit!  A reporter was calling out his name and Chris elbowed him in the ribs for good measure to get his attention too.  

 

“I- I’m sorry,”  he stammered, “I didn’t hear the question.  Would you please repeat it for me?”

 

There was a wave of smiles and soft laughter over the gallery and Yuuri immediately felt the heat of embarrassment color his cheeks.  Frantically, he darted his gaze toward Victor who was just beaming and really being zero fucking help. Idiot Coach.

 

“Certainly.  Skater Katsuki, please tell us how you felt about your Coach’s reaction toward your Free Skate tonight?”

 

Oh fuck.

 

Oh. Fuck.

 

There it was.  The Question. The Kiss Question.

 

“Uh, well,” he stammered, and a stupid nervous laugh escaped him.  Shit, what had Victor said for him to do?! “Of course I was surprised,” he answered, and he thought that would be the end of it, but no one else asked another question.  Oh no, did they want more of a response than that?!

 

He looked toward Victor again and the man just winked at him.

 

Which was Not. Helpful, Idiot.   _Idiot!_

 

But…

 

“Maybe we should ask Coach Nikiforov?”  the reporter prodded and all heads in the gallery snapped to Victor who just smiled his fanservice smile and shook his head in the negative.

 

Oh God, no.

 

“I’m not the medalist here,”  Victor said smoothly, gesturing with a little spin of his index finger to point back toward the three medalists with microphones to remind the crowd to whom they should be directing their questions.

 

And that was also no fucking help.  At least his Idiot Coach should say something to get him off the proverbial hook!  Seriously!

 

Yuuri could practically feel the disappointment from the crowd once they collectively realized that they couldn’t get a Victor soundbite, and that they had to deal with him instead: a stammering, blushing, exhausted, Idiot.

 

Oh.  That’s right; he’s also an Idiot.  An Idiot Student for an Idiot Coach.  How the hell had he won this medal anyway?! 

 

“Well, Skater Katsuki?  Surely you must realize that your on-ice... _ celebration _ is getting a lot of attention.  I’m sure the fans want to know exactly what was going on there.”

Oh God.

 

But…

 

Wait a goddamn minute.  Yuuri had nothing to be ashamed about.  He might be an Idiot, but he had won the Silver.  It wasn’t like he could control the actions of that Flake standing by the other Coaches there like another Idiot and ignoring their mild eyerolls and snickers with his sweet smile and sparkling eyes and- 

 

Wait.

 

Were the other Coaches not taking Victor seriously as a Coach?  He scanned the faces of the remaining Coaches and, Dear God, it looked like the expressions they wore ranged between a mixture of impatient indulgence and outright scoffing.  

 

Yuuri suddenly could not stand for that.   _ How dare they?!   _ Victor chose  _ him _ .  He put his own career on hold to Coach!  And the result was hanging around Yuuri’s own neck.  

 

Yes, he was an Idiot Coach, but, goddamnit, Victor Nikiforov was  _ his _ Idiot Coach, and these other Coaches should look at the medal around his neck and be put on notice that whatever Victor was doing, it was mostly working, so, Suck It.

 

Fine.  He would give them his own fucking soundbite.  Before Yuuri knew it, words were spilling out:

 

“Well, my Coach  _ does _ have an issue with personal space.  We’re working on it, though, as you can see,” he quipped, and the shocked look on Victor’s face was absolutely priceless.  Feeling emboldened, he continued: “Obviously, we need to examine the footage  _ very _ closely and look for places where my  _ Coach _ can improve upon that.  I’m sure we will have something to show for that effort in the near future.”

 

Victor’s mouth was open in a stunned expression and the other Coaches feigned disinterest as the gallery chuckled toward Yuuri’s response.  The sound of camera shutters flicked wildly from him to capturing Victor Nikiforov looking absolutely shook, and still the other Coaches seemed insulted and offended that Victor would be there occupying the same space with them.  Oh _hell_ no. They will not look down upon his Idiot Coach; how  _ dare _ they continue look down upon the Living Legend, who was more decorated a skater in his career than a few of those other Coaches had been even when summed together!

 

“Of course,” Yuuri continued, and oh hell, he knew he was running his mouth, and oh God, he needed to stop, but he couldn’t stop, and he didn’t want to, and he knew he should care more because him running his mouth at press conferences seemed to be turning into a _Thing_ now, but he didn’t seem to have the restraint to care when it looked as though the other Coaches didn’t want to accept Victor into their little club.  “I think that working with Victor has been very good for my skating, and I am happy to have this medal as evidence that I am very grateful and serious about what we will accomplish together with my programs this season.  _ No one _ should doubt that Victor knows what he’s doing as a Coach. I certainly don’t.”

 

He should really shut up now, because both Chris and Phichit were staring at him like they were about to shit kittens, or maybe they thought  _ he _ was about to shit kittens, but Yuuri didn’t care.  The press seemed satisfied, and, one look at Victor’s smiling face told him everything he needed to know:

 

Victor Nikiforov was happy.   With him. With his skating. With what he said.  The silent moment their eyes met said all of those things, and the nod and wink helped a lot this time.  He could figure out what The Kiss really meant later; the press got their laughs and the Coaches seemed to relax a little too.  Mission accomplished.

 

The remaining questions were directed once again toward Phichit, and shortly, they were excused.  Thank God, because now what he had said hit him like a ton of bricks and Yuuri couldn’t wait to get back into the locker room, grab his things, and run the whole way back to the hotel so he could curl up in the bed and die of embarrassment and apologize to Victor for his Press Conference Rambling Disease.

 

He pushed back his chair when the UGG-wearing event coordinator returned to lead them back out to the corridor and Chris leaned in to whisper in his ear:  “He  _ does _ have a personal space issue.”

 

“Chris…”

 

“And I don’t believe for a second that he knows what he’s doing as a ‘ _ Coach’ _ , but, I can’t argue with the results either.  Nice to see you on the podium, Yuuri. Let’s do it again at the Final, yes?”

 

“O-okay…”

 

By this time, the three medalists were ushered into the hallway and they met up with their Coaches once more.  “See you later, Coach Victor,” Chris tossed over his shoulder as he found his step with Josef.

 

Victor said his goodbye and immediately Yuuri felt the Russian put his arm around him again.  “Come with me for a second,” he said softly, leading him to an unoccupied corner. Oh no, was he upset?  It didn’t seem that way, but Yuuri was so tired, and so flustered with his own words; he wasn’t sure what Victor might do.

 

Once everyone had mostly walked past, Victor turned to face him and he had that warm smile that Yuuri treasured because it was so different from all of the other versions of it that he shared with the masses.  “Victor, I…”

 

The smile softened impossibly more.  “You were great up there, Yuuri.”

 

“I’m sorry, I just started babbling, and, before I knew it-”

 

“Thank you,”  Victor interrupted quietly, taking off the glove from his right hand and placing his hand upon Yuuri’s flushed cheek.

 

Huh?

 

“For what you said.  I...am still figuring out what to do for you as your Coach.  I know that earlier, I...didn’t do the right thing.”

 

Yuuri knew that.  He knew that Victor was an Idiot Coach, but he also knew that it wasn’t right for the other Coaches not to take him seriously.  Of course, Yuuri felt the pressure. Of course he would feel it again at the Rostelecom Cup in a few short weeks, the knowledge that if he screwed it up that it wasn’t just about him anymore.  Of course he didn’t want to do anything at all that would reflect negatively upon the man he had idolized since he was a child. Of course he didn’t want to hurt with his failures the person he was getting to know as Just Victor.

 

But, he did well.  He got the Silver. 

 

And Victor kissed him.

 

“You did totally mess up.  You’re kind of an Idiot Coach,”  Yuuri affirmed, feeling the need for honesty, and knowing somehow that Victor would not be offended by him saying that aloud.

 

“I know.”

 

“But...it worked,” he replied, “I...felt better after getting it out.  And then, just now...I didn’t like the way the other Coaches were...not accepting you.  That’s...I couldn’t stand that. Sorry.”

 

Victor pulled him tightly into a hug once more, and Yuuri tentatively raised his arms to reach around Victor’s back.  The response was for Victor to exhale and hold him impossibly more tightly, and Yuuri was surprised to feel him shaking.  “Victor…”

 

“Don’t worry about what the other Coaches think of me,”  he said quietly, “I...don’t care about that.”

 

Those were the words he said, but Yuuri knew immediately that they weren’t true, that Victor was trying to hide the fact that he most certainly knew, that he most certainly understood that the Coaches thought he was playing some kind of game, that he was being his capricious self, that they were waiting for the novelty of being on the sidelines to wear off so that he could return to competition where he belonged instead of playing Pretend-Coach to a skater that was just one dime-a-dozen nobody from a country other than his own.  “An Idiot Coach needs to be honest with his Idiot Student.”

 

“Yuuri…?”

 

“I know you saw how they were looking at you.  I know you were just trying not to show that it bothered you.”

 

Victor pulled back, his eyes filled with worry and his brow furrowed.  “It doesn’t matter. Don’t think about that. You are what’s important here, not me.”

 

No.  Victor was not allowed to lie to him.  He could get into his personal space, he could tease him, he could lecture him after his programs, but Yuuri did not think it was fair for Victor to allow himself to lie when he always wanted Yuuri to trust him.  “No,” he said flatly, “it  _ does _ matter.  Don’t lie to me.”

 

“What they think of me isn’t important.”

 

“Yes it is!”  Yuuri retorted hotly, clenching his fists in frustration by his sides.  He took a deep breath to calm himself. This was not how he thought the evening would go, this was not what he thought he would be worried about after The Kiss.  He was angry that people thought Victor becoming a Coach was some kind of cosmic joke, or some kind of stunt. That bothered Yuuri so much more than if he were to learn that the The Kiss was actually a stunt.  “You don’t deserve that,” he began again. “I’m going to make sure they realize that with my skating, Victor. This won’t be the last medal; I want to win Gold, Victor. I want the world to know that you are not wasting your time with me.  I want-”

 

“Oh, Yuuri…”  the hug was back, cutting off his words with the breathless sound of Victor saying his name.  It was accompanied this time by fingers slipping through his hair ever so lightly before they abruptly stopped, as if Victor caught himself doing something he thought Yuuri might not want.  But Yuuri did want it, he wanted more of it, he wanted Victor in his personal space, damn it, he wanted…

 

To kiss him.

 

But not here.

 

Not here in the corridor where Yuuri could faintly distinguish the sounds of the world happening outside of the embrace with his Idiot Coach, buzzing with people trying to close down the event and prepare the arena for the gala the following evening.

 

Not here where there could still be some of those uppity Coaches waiting around for their own Students.

 

Not here where he was still unshowered and mussed up and tired from his performance.

 

No, he wanted to feel Victor’s lips again, but not here.

 

“C-can we go?”  he whispered.

 

“Of course we can,”  Victor returned into his shoulder, but he didn’t let go, and the tremors he felt rolling off of his Coach’s body a moment ago began anew.

 

“Victor...why are you shaking…?”

 

A little huffing laugh caused a wisp of breath to glance Yuuri’s neck.  “I know they think I’m ridiculous,” Victor confessed, “and, I also know that they have every reason to think so, because I’ve always been a little ridiculous.”

 

The trembling paused and Victor pulled back a little, and Yuuri couldn’t help but to feel overwhelmed by his serious expression, and he couldn’t help that his own gaze drifted to the floor. 

 

“Look at me, Yuuri.  Please.”

 

Yuuri looked upon Victor’s face; this was not the pretty subject of his 37 official posters, this was not the man who always flirted with fans and the press, who could charm a crowd or a single person with one of his expertly timed wink-smile combinations.  This was the real Victor Nikiforov, a man who was clearly the most Idiotic of Idiot Coaches, who seriously did have a personal space issue, who seemed to be delicately balancing upon some invisible line between flawed human being and the carefully constructed public persona that had people all over the world falling in love with him for his whimsical personality and his innate charm and, of course, for his shockingly gorgeous appearance.  

 

Yuuri wasn’t sure why he kept trying to reclassify his feelings into something ambiguous.  When he had introduced his theme at the press conference in Japan and blurted out that nonsense of things like saying his hometown, his family, and Victor, were some abstract things he decided to call love.  It  _ was actual  _ love.  And he was stronger for it.

 

And Victor really was the one person he wanted to hold onto.

 

“I need to tell you something, Yuuri.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Yuuri knew he had been in love with Victor since he was a child who didn’t know what that was, or what it meant, or that maybe falling in love with another boy wasn’t the usual way of things.  Now that he was a man, he knew what that all meant, and that his love for Victor only deepened as he got to know the man for who he really was and not for the glittering images of perfection that stared at him from all those now-empty spots on the walls of his childhood bedroom in Hasetsu.  

 

Even when he had those rare encounters of drunk fooling around with a girl or a guy at a party, or those occasional dates where he honestly tried to find something interesting about the other person aside from how they looked while simultaneously fighting the urge to blurt out “Why would you be interested in going out with someone like me?” before adding enough liquid courage to the date to maybe get off with the person, only to never call him or her again…

 

Even through all of his limited experience with others, Victor had always been that precious person, when Yuuri didn’t even know the man personally at all aside from a couple of “Hi~~!”s tossed to him from the other side of the locker room at a competition or practice session, toward which Yuuri promptly had lost his shit and bowed and found an excuse to make himself scarce.

 

And Sochi...he had felt like such a failure.  His one chance to skate on the same playing field as Victor Nikiforov, and he blew it.  When Victor had asked him if he had wanted that Commemorative Photo, Yuuri felt his inner walls collapse and he could do nothing but turn away, thinking that his underwhelming career as a competitive figure skater was not worthy of even one selfie with that gorgeous and talented Russian.

 

But, everything had changed now.  Everything. Victor had kissed him after his Free Skate.  In front of a packed arena. Aired on international media.

 

Victor Nikiforov was the reason.  His inspiration. Yuuri thought he needed him always to be his rock, and sometimes Victor was just an Idiot Coach.  Yuuri was learning that Victor was not always certain. He was not always confident. He was not always perfect, far from it.  Each and every day, he became less of an idol and very much more _real_. And maybe it wasn’t fair for Yuuri to expect that he would always be assured.  Real Victor had some insecurities of his own, and Yuuri knew he was falling even more in love with him; he knew the hurt would be devastating when Victor left, but, his skating was improving.  He was starting to believe that he could win, that he had it in him to keep moving forward, and he didn’t have to do it alone. At least for now.

 

So, for now, he wanted to be with Victor.  He wanted more of him. He...desired him.

 

He loved him.  God, Yuuri really was setting himself up for a huge disappointment, but, as long as the Grand Prix Series continued, he would continue to steal Victor away from the rest of the world and be the only person on earth who would satisfy him.  He was in love with this man who could comfort him within his arms, but who also trembled within his embrace. He loved Victor. And, maybe, for a little longer, Victor could love him back. “Victor?”

 

“I have but one regret about becoming your Coach,” the man declared.

 

Oh no.  What?

 

“That one regret is that I have no idea how to be a Coach.”

 

Oh.  Was that all?

 

No kidding.

 

And maybe Yuuri loved him just a little bit more than he had a moment ago because Victor had admitted it himself.  It was okay for Victor to be an Idiot Coach; it was okay. So why was Victor looking at him as though he might disappear?  Yuuri knew he had cried on him, yelled at him, threw all of his fears at his Coach’s feet and couldn’t even look him in the eye when they walked out from the warm-up area to rinkside.

 

“But, you are teaching me, Yuuri,”  Victor continued softly, “I heard you, and I promise you that even if I don’t have the right words to say, I will believe in you.  I will stay by your side and believe in you, even when you don’t listen to me, even when you throw in an amazing and unplanned quad flip at the end of your program, I’ll believe in you and stand by you, and I believe that you will win.”

 

Oh, God.

 

The mirror of his own thoughts said in that Russian-accented English made Yuuri to feel his own eyes to widen and begin to sting upon their edges, the corners becoming moist until he impatiently swiped his hand underneath the frames of his glasses to brush the waterworks away.   Victor had heard him, had listened to him. He may not know what to do as a Coach, but Yuuri had long since understood that. That understanding was further cemented after he blew his nose and poked the top of that gorgeous man’s head, exactly where Victor was most paranoid about his hair thinning, even though, as far as Yuuri could tell, everything was still okay.   But he had hoped that the gesture would have shown Victor that it was fine to be imperfect, that it was fine to have flaws. 

 

Maybe it had worked. 

 

Maybe Victor could understand that it really was fine for him just to be Victor, and that it was fine for him not to worry so much about being a Good Coach at all.

 

“I...want to win.”

 

That it was fine if he didn’t know exactly the words to say.

 

“I know you do.”

 

That it was fine for him to be a guy who sometimes had no respect for personal space.  That it was fine...to kiss him.

 

Because it was.  

 

“Then as long as you know that, just watch me, Victor.”

 

“Of course I will,” he whispered.  His expression softened once again and his eyes brightened.  “I think my ‘issue with personal space’ may be about to strike again,” he added playfully, leaning in for another hug.   

 

“Okay,”  Yuuri replied, feeling the warmth of Victor surround him again, and, thankfully, he was no longer trembling.  He ventured to tighten his own grip; maybe he was starting to have an issue with personal space too. 

 

He had never touched anyone this much before, never this freely, never this openly…

 

And he didn’t want to stop touching Victor, and he didn’t want Victor to stop touching him.  There was no denying the feelings that had started out as a schoolboy crush on an image and a deep admiration for the Russian man’s astonishing talent and athleticism had been solidified on their journey together in Yuuri’s hometown. For however long Victor would remain by his side, Yuuri would love him.  Even if he won Gold and they both proved their respective points of being legitimized as a Skater and Coach, and Victor went back to his real life in Russia, Yuuri would love him until then as Victor, the flawed human who had come into his life at one of its lowest of moments and managed to turn everything around.

 

Victor Nikiforov was a gift, and all Yuuri could do was skate for him and show the world what knowing and loving Victor Nikiforov meant to him.

 

“Let’s take a cab back to the hotel,”  Victor said quietly as they started to walk back toward the locker room to gather his things.  

 

“It’s not far.  We can walk.”

 

“Not until I have another look at your ankle,”  Victor replied with a little frown as he held open the door.

 

“But-”

 

“That’s an order from your Coach, Yuuri.”

 

“Okay.”    Just this once, Yuuri would listen to his Idiot Coach.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I'm so grateful for the subs, kudos, bookmarks, and comments. Grateful and...stunned? Thank you so much for giving my stories a chance. Writing for generous readers like you is my joy. ~C

 

By this time, all of the other competitors had left the arena, and Yuuri could not ignore the relief he felt when it was only the two of them in the locker room.  He reached for his gear bag and Victor took it from him along with the garment bag which held the top half of his costume that he had already pulled from the hook.

 

“I can get that, Victor,”  Yuuri asserted, reaching for the strap.  

 

Victor turned slightly to the side, making the goal of claiming the gear bag just out of reach.  It was almost comical the way he moved, a petulant pout on his lips and happiness in his eyes. “Not a chance.  You carry the flowers and yourself and nothing more. If I could carry you too, I would.”

 

Yuuri sighed and picked up the bouquet, knowing that Victor probably would carry him if he had a free arm.  “Oh really? Maybe I should just make you carry everything, and then I could just carry  _ you _ .” 

 

Victor’s eyes widened and his lips parted as if he was wanting to offer some witty comeback but the words failed him.  He closed them and offered another smile instead as they walked toward the door to leave at last.

 

“What?  You don’t think I could?”  Yuuri quipped back, surprising himself that he was successfully able to push his thoughts about The Kiss and about his Feelings aside for the moment so that they could exit the building and hail a taxi.   He had been a little worried that there might be a lot of reporters or photographers around waiting for them, but Victor had apparently thought of that and thought nothing of heading them straight to a door that clearly read “Employees Only Beyond This Point” in no fewer than three different languages, two of which Yuuri knew Victor could read.

 

“Hmm.  I guess you’ll just have to try sometime,” he remarked as he pushed open the door and scanned their new surroundings for anything that might resemble an exit to the outside.  Yuuri couldn’t see anything but offices and storage, but Victor started walking and he followed along until he also saw another door marked as an exit and a smoking area.

 

“I guess I will.”

 

“Wow~~!”

 

Oh God.  Did he just  _ flirt _ with his Idiot Coach?

 

Oh well.  Victor seemed happy about it, and Yuuri felt amazingly good about it too.  He was so, so tired, but it didn’t stop the faint thrum of excitement that buzzed through him toward the thought of scooping Victor up and hoisting him over his shoulder like a big sack of potatoes.  If he remembered Victor’s most recent competition height-weight stats, which he  _ did, _ it shouldn’t be that much of a big deal to actually carry him.  He wasn’t  _ that _ much larger.  Yuuri couldn’t stop the little giggle that escaped him toward the thought.

 

“What’s so funny?”  Victor asked as they opened the final door to the outside and ventured out into the night to hail a cab; thankfully there were no paparazzi anywhere in sight.

 

“Oh, I was just mentally calculating your weight versus how much I can bench press.”

 

The ever-graceful Victor Nikiforov almost tripped over his own two feet and the look on his face was priceless.  “R-really?”

 

Yuuri only shrugged before responding with a cheeky, “It wouldn’t be a problem.”

 

Victor stopped in his tracks and looked him up and down;  Yuuri had expected to hear a snarky remark full of over-the-top skepticism, but instead, he received a look that he couldn’t quite place, but that which caused his cheeks to burn and his stomach to lurch.  He needed to Stop. What the hell was the matter with him? 

 

He must be more tired than he thought.

 

At that moment, a taxi appeared and they silently put the gear into the trunk for the short drive back to the event hotel.  As they piled into the back seat and sealed themselves inside with the closure of the car door, Yuuri felt the exertion of the free skate and the day’s lack of truly restful sleep start to catch up with him.  Before he realized it, he had leaned his head upon Victor’s shoulder and closed his eyes until he caught himself doing it and sat up abruptly.

 

“It’s okay, Yuuri.  Please. Lean on me.”

 

And Yuuri was too tired to protest when an arm went around his shoulders, and gloved fingers gently patted him there as he made Victor’s shoulder his pillow for the remainder of the short journey.

 

“Yuuri, we’re here.”

 

Yuuri opened his eyes; did he really drift off to sleep so quickly?  The space inside the taxi was blurred until Victor opened his hand and gently put his glasses inside his palm.  Yuuri sat up and placed them upon his nose as Victor paid for the fare. He stretched a little in the seat and his legs felt a little unsteady, the muscles finally giving their signal that they craved for more soothing stretches.  He didn’t think he needed a full ice bath, though; rather, he wanted to make his first order of business a scalding hot shower where he could let the water surround him whilst he worked through the soreness on his own. He could call the JSF rep and have a PT give him a once-over, but Yuuri decided he didn’t need to go that far.  He didn’t want anyone else to intrude upon the small space in the hotel room that he occupied with his Idiot Coach.

 

Oh.

 

Oh.

 

That’s right.

 

Victor Nikiforov had kissed him after his Free Skate, in front of a packed arena, aired on international media.

 

The realization hit him fully once more as soon as they opened the doors to the car: Screaming.   _ Squealing _ .  Flashes of press cameras and personal cell phones.  Men and women alike shouting Victor’s name, and, amazingly, shouting his own.

 

“Blyad,” came the unimpressed utterance spoken under his Coach’s breath in that Russian tongue as they moved to lean inside the trunk to retrieve their belongings.  Yuuri didn’t need a translation for that; Victor’s tone clearly declared that he was Not Thrilled, and that the word was probably not the sweetest thing ever to escape Victor’s mouth.  “I thought driving around for an extra thirty minutes would have been enough,” he said quietly into Yuuri’s ear so that he could be heard over the fans and press. “I’m sorry that it wasn’t.”

 

“It’s okay,”  Yuuri replied, still in the haze which follows an interrupted nap.  So that’s how he had time to fall asleep; Victor tried to delay their arrival to the hotel so they wouldn’t have to deal with all of...this.  Sometimes that flighty flake was so considerate of him, almost to a fault; Victor was used to paparazzi and Yuuri really wasn’t, but he was having to get there.  At times, however, it really was overwhelming how quickly he was having to adjust; occupying even the same postal code as Victor Nikiforov meant that Yuuri was getting more press by extension, and he could already hear a group of them yelling for Victor to look their way.   

 

“Just wave, smile, and you don’t have to say a thing,”  he whispered, “Stay right with me; they’ve probably already been kicked out of the lobby if they are all out front like this.”

 

“Okay.”   

 

Yuuri adjusted his glasses and and watched the transformation occur right before his very sight:  The Media Darling had arrived. It was one thing to see how much attention Victor got at the Chugoku, Shikoku, and Kyushu Championship, but this was on a whole other level from that.  Yuuri wasn’t used to it at all; having all eyes on him, watching him, probably the bags under his eyes had returned, he probably looked like Shit compared to Victor who almost always looked like he was runway or photoshoot ready, he probably was the subject of snide comments wondering why Victor Nikiforov was giving up his career to porter Yuuri’s gear bag that was clearly marked for the Japanese National Team, with no representation of the red white or blue of the Russian’s own flag, they probably hated him for being the reason Victor was not competing this season.

 

But, wait.

 

That was okay.  That was exactly what Yuuri wanted, right?  If taking Victor away was the “gravest of sins” as Chris had put it, then Yuuri needed to show that there was a very good reason for Victor to have become his Coach, and, lucky for him, the reason was still hanging around his neck.  He felt himself straighten as Victor spent a moment waving and smiling and responding to a ridiculous amount of “Over here, Victor!”s. He could do this. Victor’s free arm was still around his shoulder, gripping him firmly through his gloves and through Yuuri’s track jacket.  That was when he realized that there were even more shouts of his own name, asking him for an “Over here, Yuuri!” and so many flashes, so very many. The glare of them bouncing around the lenses of his glasses was getting annoying, so, without thinking he pulled them from his face, knowing that as long as he was held and led by Victor, he didn’t really need to see.

 

The Reaction, however...he was not expecting it.  As soon as his glasses were tucked inside the pocket of his jacket the screams intensified and Victor’s grip tightened as well.  Yuuri looked up and Victor’s smile had melted a little from its Media Darling ice and warmed into that smile that Yuuri knew was only for him. 

 

The crowd seemed to take a collective breath, as if they were anticipating that Victor might just literally sweep him off his feet and into another surprise kiss.  Yuuri was starting to panic; that Idiot Coach wouldn’t do it  _ again _ , would he?  Not outside, not when there was no real reason to do it, right?  Not here, right?  _ Right?! _

 

No sooner had Yuuri’s brain processed those nervous questions, the moment was suddenly gone and the press-ready mask returned to Victor’s face.  Although Yuuri knew it was not his real smile, although he knew it was fake, he couldn’t help but to feel relieved all the same.

 

The public could get their dazzling Living Legend, Yuuri accepted that it came with the territory of having him so close.  

 

What he did not want to accept was the public seeing glimpses of expressions from Just Victor, the ones that were only supposed to be meant for  _ him _ .

 

Oh.

 

When had he become this selfish and greedy?

 

As Victor said his goodbyes to the fans, and as Yuuri made a couple of valiant attempts to follow suit,  his Coach waved one final time before ushering them both through the doors of the hotel where they strode across the lobby without pause until they reached the elevator galley.

 

Thankfully, when the elevator car arrived, it was empty and the pair stepped inside.  Victor pressed the button for their floor and reached into his pocket for his phone, and Yuuri put his glasses back on.  The elder thumbed through a few notifications before saying, “I got something from Chris. It looks like everyone’s heading out to a bar later.  We’re invited, if you’d like to go.”

 

“Oh...um…”

 

“Oh, and I got a text from Minako.”

 

Huh?  In just what version of his life, exactly,  was Minako-sensei _texting_ _Victor Nikiforov?!_

 

“She says you’re not answering your phone.”

 

“Ah, I haven’t turned it back on yet.”

 

The floors ticked by and Yuuri studied the indicator.  Six. Seven. Eight.

 

“Did you want me to send her something?”  Victor asked quietly. “We should invite her to eat with us since she came all this way…”

 

Nine.  Ten. 

 

No.  He wanted to be only with Victor.  He loved Minako-sensei, but he wasn’t sure he was up for any of her meddling right now.  However, it would be incredibly rude of him not to offer at least that much since she had taught and supported him for so long.  He supposed he had to do it.

 

Ding.

 

The doors parted and they stepped into the corridor; Yuuri had a momentary lapse and forgot in what direction their room was, but Victor stepped assuredly to the right and so Yuuri followed.  “Yeah...can you text her back?”

 

“Of course.”

 

Yuuri had gotten himself into the habit of turning his phone completely off until after an event, but he hadn’t been able to switch the power on after this particular event just yet.  Thankfully, Victor took it in stride and Yuuri could hear him tapping with one thumb a response as they walked toward their room which sat at the very end of the corridor.

 

Victor didn’t need to know that Yuuri wasn’t ready to see what he thought would likely be a social media blitz about what had happened after the Free Skate; he wasn’t ready to hear the words if Victor only laughed and dismissed The Kiss as only a surprise for the press and for the fans.  He could at least keep this one night to think that there was something more behind it, the very something Yuuri wanted, but that which he was still not quite ready to dare into existence.

 

He wanted the ignorant bliss for now; he could deal with the aftermath in the morning.  If Victor forgot it and they immersed themselves in going over his footage, then Yuuri would have his answer, wouldn’t he?

 

So, for tonight, no phone.

 

“She declined dinner; she says she has an early flight,” Victor returned, replacing his phone into the pocket and trading it out for the key card to the room.  He had a little smile on his face, though, and Yuuri thought that he saw a hint of pink dance briefly across his cheeks for a split-second, but Yuuri couldn’t be sure, and he didn’t know what that could possibly mean.   “She says she will be turning in early, and to call your parents when you feel up to it.”

 

“Okay.”

 

The key card affirmed the request for access to the room with a soft click, and Yuuri walked in first, heading to the small table inside to lay the flowers upon it as Victor stowed his garment bag and gear bag in the closet.  “Why don’t you take a hot shower, and then we’ll see to that ankle, okay?”

 

Yes.  Yes, that was perfect.  Hot shower, no phone. But…

 

“What about Chris?”  Yuuri asked as he shed his track jacket and draped it on one of the chairs before reaching into his suitcase to select clothing.  He didn’t want to go out, but, Victor probably wanted to spend time with Chris. If all the other competitors were there, Yuuri knew Phichit would be among them too.  Phichit was probably lighting up his phone but still Yuuri refused to answer it. He would be forgiven; Phichit was used to the silent treatment from time to time after all when it came to answering calls and responding to texts.

 

“Oh, yes, I suppose I should text him back as well.  Did you...want to go?” Victor asked, and Yuuri wasn’t sure if the slight hesitation was concern for his ankle or for being unsure about asking if Yuuri wanted to accompany him.

 

“Actually, Victor, I am...tired.”

 

“Of course you are,”  he responded, and the hesitation was replaced by something a bit more cheerful.    “I’ll tell him we’ll pass for tonight-”

 

“No,”  Yuuri interrupted,  “You go have fun, if you want to.  I’ll just sleep.”

 

Yuuri bent at the waist to select a fresh t-shirt, undergarments,  and some shorts to sleep in, but he didn’t hear Victor tapping out a response.  When he turned to face him, Victor had a look on his face that Yuuri could not quite decipher.  “Victor?”

 

“I...actually, I...didn’t want to go out,” he said evenly, stepping toward him and reaching around his neck to remove the silver medal.  “If you don’t mind, I don’t want to put this in the box just yet,” he remarked. Yuuri could only stare as the ribbon slid over his head and as Victor held the metal disk reverently in his hand, tracing a finger over the engraving before draping it artfully against the flowers Yuuri had only casually tossed upon the table.

 

Suddenly, the atmosphere became charged with something Yuuri didn’t know how to interpret.  Was Victor angry? Was he disappointed? “A-are you sure about not going out?” he ventured to ask.

 

Victor’s expression softened a little and a slight smile graced his lips.  “I’m sure. Now, off to the shower with you.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Yuuri stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind him, allowing a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding to escape with a pronounced exhale.  He opened the tap to allow for the water to heat as he gingerly shed the track pants. He peeled off the now lukewarm ice pack and inspected his ankle; it looked fine, it felt fine, but he knew that his Coach would want to inspect it anyway.  The thought made his heart skip again, but he shook it off as he removed the bottom half of his costume and dance belt and tossed the belt in his laundry bag and folded the costume in half to drape it upon the counter. He caught his reflection in the mirror as he rose to reach for a towel:  he was still Yuuri. His body was in competition form, his glasses were starting to fog up a little with the steam, but it was still Yuuri staring back at him.

 

He chided himself for thinking he would look different, somehow, after Victor Nikiforov had kissed him after his Free Skate, in front of a packed arena, aired on international media.

 

He set his glasses gently by the sink; the moisture of the bath was quickly negating whatever staying power remained in the hair gel used to slick his hair back and away from his face for his programs.  Without the Eros costume, without the beautiful deep blue-violet of his free skate ensemble, he was only Yuuri after all, and he felt his thoughts slip into their usual patterns: how could  _ this _ be something Victor would want by his side?  How could this be something Victor could kiss?  How could a dime-a-dozen skater from Japan inspire the man who was, arguably, the greatest skater in living memory?

 

How could he presume to want to steal Victor away from the world?

 

No.

 

No.

 

Victor chose to coach him.  Victor chose to be here. He chose to decline an invitation to go out with the others.  

 

Victor chose all of those things, so Yuuri needed to allow it.  Whatever may or may not come of the remainder of the night, whatever may or may not be plastered all over the press, Victor had chosen him.

 

And Yuuri knew he needed Victor; skating for Victor had been one of his most frequently visited adolescent dreams, skating with Victor on the same playing field the only one of those dreams visited even more frequently.  As imperfect as his Idiot Coach could be, Yuuri needed him.

 

And, of course, he wanted him.  Wanted him, always wanting when those adolescent fantasies became more than just about Victor’s incredible stories on the ice.  Always wanting, wondering,  _ imagining _ what it would feel like to hear that accent-laden voice say his name, to feel those pink lips upon his own.  He pressed his fingertips to his own lips, feeling the memory of the touch, the tingling that went straight through to all the far-reaches of his body, the sensation that coursed through his blood once his brain caught up with what was happening when Victor leapt toward him.  Now that he touched his lips, all of the other sensations felt in passing during his time with Victor flooded through him; the feel of the soft skin of Victor’s hands when they occasionally brushed against his own, the incidental contact they made either in the onsen or at the rink, the security of his arm around his shoulder…

 

Oh, God, what were they now?  What were they? When Victor returned to Russia after the Grand Prix Series, would the loss be too much for him to overcome now that so many of his wild dreams seemed to be turning into some sort of crazy reality that happened to be his life?

 

But, they were Idiot Coach and Idiot Student.  He hadn’t been told any different, and he didn’t dare ask.  He resolved that he wouldn’t ask tonight; he deserved one complete night to feel that warmth of the bliss toward the thought that the kiss might be something more than Victor’s penchant for surprise.

 

He’d take it.  He’d take it, if only for tonight, if only and until they returned to Hasetsu to work on preparing for the Rostelecom Cup; he would take Victor’s kiss and treasure it, and accept that one of those long-held fantasies had become inexplicably real.

 

With the shower completed, Yuuri toweled himself dry and slid on his boxer-briefs, shorts,  and t-shirt. He dried his hair with the complimentary hair dryer that Victor refused to use in favor of his own, and he cleared the lenses of his glasses of condensation.  Okay. 

 

He opened the door to the room and Victor was sitting on the chair scrolling through his phone with a small smile on his face.  He looked up and the smile widened, transformed once again from the Media Darling to that something that Yuuri craved to be reserved only for him.  “Feel better?”

 

“Hm.”

 

It was then that Yuuri noticed a gleaming silver bucket, wrapped in a linen napkin to absorb the spotted droplets of condensation along its surface. There was a bottle inside of it, with two flute glasses laying in wait.  He looked toward Victor’s face again, and there must have been a question in his gaze. “Ah,” the Russian said, “I took the liberty of having a bottle sent up. I hope you don’t mind.”

 

Did he mind?  Did he? Was it...Champagne?

 

“Uh…” was all his brain managed to get his voice to produce.

 

“You deserve it.  We’re celebrating tonight, celebrating you.”

 

“You didn’t have to…”

 

A small huffing laugh was his response as Victor nodded and put his phone down, motioning for him to sit across from him on the edge of the bed as he rose from his chair and pulled the bottle from the bucket.  He expertly popped the cork and poured them each a glass, and Yuuri thought that his feet might be stuck to the floor. Yuuri could see that Victor had been busy assembling the things he would need to tape his ankle and care for his feet.  “Sit, Yuuri. I need to check that ankle.”

 

“Um...it’s fine…”

 

“Sit.”

 

The tone was soft, but the word was said in a way that Yuuri understood that he should not argue.  He moved toward the bed and accepted the glass of Champagne on his way. 

 

“But first, a toast,”  Victor said softly as he smiled, and as he moved to link their free hands together, “to an amazing showing at the Cup of China, and to surprising your Idiot Coach with a quad flip.”

 

Yuuri’s heart stuttered in his chest toward the touch of cool fingertips lacing themselves in between his own.  “Victor…”

 

“Kanpai.”

 

Yuuri felt that small smile tug at his lips again, and he responded back to the gentle squeeze felt within his other hand with a squeeze of his own, almost before his brain registered that he was actually Doing That; he supposed he shouldn’t really be surprised that Victor knew that word, given his several visits to the available watering holes in Hasetsu over the last months.

 

“Kanpai,” he returned, and they both took their sips.  God, it had been awhile since he’d last had Champagne, and what little he remembered of the Sochi banquet made it a less-than-great memory.  He knew he drank a lot, and he knew he woke up with a hangover for the ages that didn’t help his misery after his terrible performance. He didn’t remember most of the banquet, he didn’t remember leaving the banquet, he didn’t remember a thing; more than likely, Celestino carried his drunk ass off to his room in a huff considering his former Coach’s less-than-amused mood early the next morning.  His coach barely grunted in his direction when he collected him so they could catch an earlier flight back to Detroit instead of staying for the ex-skate; the change to the flight plan had been at Yuuri’s request prior to the banquet. However, Yuuri had the thought that morning that he had made a mistake to do that, but, in the end, he went along, his hindsight and that nagging sense of something important being missed not enough of a force to ask Celestino to rearrange their plans back to the original schedule.

 

Here, now, however, the Champagne was good, and the company even better; how could his life have turned into this, where he was privately toasting a successful performance with none other than Victor Nikiforov his very own Beautiful Self?  Maybe a few sips of the bubbly was exactly what he needed to unwind and allow himself the luxury of this very moment in time, another treasure he could keep until the time inevitably came when he and Victor would undoubtedly part ways. Victor was delicately sipping from his own glass as he resumed his former seat in the chair.  He had shed his suit jacket and his sleeves were turned up, cufflinks laid upon the table and sparkling a bit in the low light of the room. Gingerly, Yuuri sat on the bed and scooted himself back a little as Victor leaned down to reach for his foot. “I can tape it, Victor.”

 

“I know you  _ can,”  _ Victor declared softly, taking another sip before setting his glass upon the table, “but why should you have to when I am here for you?”

 

Oh.  

 

Yuuri watched and drank slowly from his own glass as Victor gently pressed upon the tendons and bones of his foot.  His hands were cool to the touch, but, the sensation was never unpleasant; Victor always had cool hands, he almost always wore gloves at practice and at rinkside as his Coach, and Yuuri suddenly found a bit of truth in a saying he had heard a few times when he lived in America:  “Cold hands, warm heart.” He hadn’t ever quite understood the colloquialism until just this moment; even through all of his imperfections and his Idiot Coaching, Victor had never been anything but caring, no matter how stern the post-skate lectures often were, or if the flippant and sort-of savage comments that escaped Victor’s mouth sometimes left Yuuri wondering if he should be offended.  There were so many other moments, moments when Victor managed to be all around him, encouraging him, giving him the confidence he so desperately needed, and the attention he absolutely craved, and the occasional wake-up call that at first seemed harsh but that only served to make him a better skater.

 

Maybe it was making him a better man.

 

Maybe it was making him feel almost worthy of sipping Champagne with his foot inside of Victor’s hands.

 

Yuuri didn’t know the real source for the expression, but he didn’t care as long as he could feel the soft  fingertips press against the places where there had been that slightest of swelling before he iced it down. “Swelling is down.  That’s good,” Victor murmured, twisting in the chair slightly to reach for the analgesic and foot balm. “We’re still taping it though,” he added, “no need to take any chances.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Yuuri continued to watch as Victor massaged his foot, the Champagne tickling his throat as he swallowed, thankful for the distraction from the completely stunning sight of Victor taking care of him in such a way as this; feet were ugly things weren’t they?  They were ugly and filthy weren’t they? Especially his with the years of calluses and that one misshapen toe from one of his first pairs of skates bought at a department store and not a skate shop, those that didn’t quite fit the way they were supposed to, but that he used until there was absolutely no avoiding telling his parents that he had outgrown them and needed a new pair.  He had stayed up nearly all night fretting about how he could ask his parents to buy them until Minako-sensei showed up at the onsen and barged into his room at the crack of early the next morning with a pair of Reidells to replace the generic recreational boots and blades.

 

Victor wiped his hands with a towel, drained his glass, poured himself another and topped off Yuuri’s glass,  and then reached for the athletic tape. No doubt Victor had done this for himself and had it done for him often, so, with the skill of years of practice and observation, Victor wound the tape in that familiar pattern that circled arch and instep, and then around the ankle, and then back down and around the bottom of his foot again.  “Not too tight, is it?” he asked, and Yuuri could only shake his head slightly in the negative, still overcome with a sort of awe and fascination that he would be in this Situation at all. It bordered on disbelief. The firm tape actually felt good around his foot, it felt secure around his ankle, and his exposed heel sat delicately within Victor’s palm as he cut the tape free from the roll and pressed the end down.  “Let’s have your other foot now.”

 

Yuuri lowered the taped foot and raised his bruised one, and more analgesic was applied and foot balm massaged in.  Victor was so focused upon his task, his hair falling over his eye a little and shifting slightly with each press of his hands, but Yuuri couldn’t help but to flinch a little when careful fingers pressed upon the bruised metatarsal.  “Maybe we need some ice on this too,” Victor remarked, his eyes providing the question mark that his sentence didn’t have.

 

“No, it’s fine.”

 

Victor nodded and reached for the towel again.  “Are you hungry? I’m starving,” he said, putting the supplies away inside of their vinyl bag and zipping it closed.  

 

“Yeah, I could eat,”  Yuuri answered, looking down upon his well-cared for feet, looking at his fingers which were doing their unconscious nervous tumbling in his lap and around the stem of his glass.  

 

“Is room service okay?  I could go out and bring something back from somewhere if you’d prefer...”

 

“Room service is fine.”

 

Victor nodded and rose to enter the en suite, ostensibly to wash his hands, and Yuuri didn’t know exactly what he was supposed to be Doing other than that he didn’t want to turn on his phone.  He could see the screen of Victor’s phone constantly lighting up with notifications, buzzing with texts. Maybe he should call out to Victor to let him know? But maybe he didn’t want to. Maybe he wanted to keep Victor all to himself.  

 

Maybe he should just tell his brain to shut up and drink more Champagne.

 

His eyes came to rest upon the table where the Champagne and the bouquet of flowers sat with the silver medal,  _ his _ silver medal, its ribbon draped around the floral stems with the disk settled near the blooms.  The soft light from the one lamp Victor had turned on near the nightstand caught the very edge of the metal, leaving a single glint upon it that suddenly captivated Yuuri’s attention.  

 

_ His _ medal.  And there would be more; he had already made that declaration to Victor Nikiforov, who had kissed him after his Free Skate, in front of a packed arena, aired on international media.

 

Victor returned from his visit to the en suite, and he had the room service menu in hand when he sat back down.  He reached for his Champagne and sipped casually as he perused the offerings, and he ignored the buzzing of his phone.

 

Yuuri shifted on the bed and stood to reach for the Champagne; somehow, he already needed a refill.

 

“Let me,”  Victor said immediately, “I want you off your feet as much as possible tonight.  In fact, we should probably elevate them, just in case.”

 

Yuuri sat back down, feeling a bit of stubbornness shoot through his gut.  “Victor, really. You don’t have to wait on me hand and foot. My feet are fine.  Everything’s fine.”

 

“Ah~~but this type of thing is included with the Idiot Coach package, Yuuri.  Remember, I’m billing you later for my fee when you achieve all of your successes,” he added playfully.

 

Oh.

 

Ugh.

 

He sort of forgot about that part.  Oh well. Fuck it. He downed the rest of the Champagne in his glass and he didn’t even have it in him to worry about what the astronomical monetary cost of having this particular Idiot Coach might would be.

 

“I’ll have another glass then, Coach, since I’ll probably end up paying for it anyway,” he quipped wryly , surprising himself a little.  He wasn’t drunk, not even buzzed really, but he supposed that a couple of quick glasses combined with his overall tiredness had taken the edge off somewhat, at least enough to play along with the conversation.  These moments were so nice, when the facades were dropped, when it was the two of them alone, when they could talk to one another without Yuuri’s idol worship or anxiety getting in the way. These moments seemed to relax Victor too, as evidenced by the wink and the little laugh he received in response as the Russian dutifully took his glass and topped him off.

 

“Now that my Silver Medalist has a full glass, let’s get you settled more comfortably, and let’s get those feet up.  You’ve more than earned it.”

 

“Okay…”

 

Victor was propping up the pillows against the headboard and then he crouched down again in front of him where Yuuri sat upon the side of the bed.  Oh dear God; Yuuri was becoming so Weak to this image of Victor, caring for him, looking up toward him with that smile that was reserved for no one else...it was too much, the swell of feeling that he wanted this forever, or for at least for however long he could have it.  His heart started pounding as Victor put his hands on his legs to lift them onto the bed and-

 

“You kissed me.”

 

Oh shit.

 

Oh.   _ Shit! _

 

Did he really just blurt that out?  Did he really just Do That?!

 

Victor stopped his effort to raise his legs, and his hair was covering his face, and he was so, so still, and, was he mad?  Was he upset? What?!

 

Yuuri was about to spew out a lengthy drabble of “Nevermind!s” and “Sorry!s” and “Don’t listen to anything that comes out of my mouth after a few drinks!,” when Victor looked at him with an expression that almost looked like relief.

 

“I was wondering if you were ever going to mention it.”

 

What?

 

“Eh?”  was all his flustered nerves could help him to supply.

 

“Yes, I kissed you, Yuuri.”

 

Yuuri heard the words, and they did sort of register, and why was Victor looking like he was relieved to say it, and why wasn’t he able to say something back?  

 

Breathe.  Take a sip of Champagne, and breathe again.  Victor was still holding his legs, but he hadn’t continued to lift them to the bed.  It was as though he was waiting for more, waiting for Yuuri to give him something more, but Yuuri didn’t quite know what to give, he didn’t quite know how to respond, the feelings of desire for this gorgeous man conflicting with the Doubt that still encroached upon his thoughts, the invasive ones that always spoke more loudly than did his growing confidence in himself; he might be feeling more confident at times on the ice, but, off the ice, Yuuri was quite convinced that he was still a Hot Mess, a hot mess that didn’t deserve to have Victor Nikiforov kiss him after the Free Skate, in front of a packed arena, aired on international media.

 

“I guess...you just got caught up in the moment,” he said quietly, unable to look at Victor, not wanting to hear the inevitable confirmation of same intoned in Victor’s voice.  No matter how much his body and soul wanted for that not to be the case, it was the logical conclusion. It was the truth he needed to steel himself against, it was exactly what Victor would say, wasn’t it?

 

“Yuuri,”  Victor began quietly,  “look at me.”

 

Against his mind’s internal screaming for him to do the opposite, Yuuri met Victor’s gaze, his blue eyes flecked with green looking at him intently, seeking for something and Yuuri didn’t know for what.

 

“Yuuri, I get caught up in all of your moments.”  Yuuri felt his cheeks heat and his eyes widen toward the words, and then he saw Victor’s expression soften and he went back to lifting Yuuri’s legs and settling him onto the bed.  Wordlessly, he went to his own bed and took one of the pillows to place it underneath his feet. “Let’s order some dinner, okay?”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Is there anything specific you want?”

 

Yuuri considered.  Was there anything specific?  Was there anything specific he wanted?

 

Yes.

 

Oh, God, yes.   

 

“No,” he said instead, because it was the safest possible answer, in direct opposition to all of the yesses he had no courage to convey aloud.  Yes, he wanted that Kiss, yes, he wanted to do it again, yes he Wanted-

 

“Okay.  I’ll place the order; do you mind if I take a shower while we wait?”

 

“No…”

 

“Okay.”

 

Victor usually took just slightly less time than _forever_ in the shower, so maybe Yuuri could use the time to Think about all of this.

 

Or maybe the floor would just do him a favor for once and swallow him whole for being such an Idiot Hot Mess.

 

Or maybe he'll just have another glass of Champagne.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the love...I'm...so happy ;_;   
>  I treasure every kudos, bookmark, & comment. Everyone has been so very kind, truly I've received more kindness than I deserve for this train wreck. Thank you~~~Please, enjoy.   
> ~C

Victor ordered a few things from the menu, and then he disappeared into the en suite.  Yuuri immediately broke the rules about staying off his feet and got up from the bed to refill his glass.  He needed it, so sue him. What the hell was he doing? Victor still hadn’t picked up his phone, and it was still lighting up like a fucking Christmas tree.  Yuuri took off his glasses and placed them on the nightstand, not wanting the aid to his vision to allow him to succumb to his increasing curiosity and his increasing anxiety over what could possibly be the content of those notifications.  If everything was blurry, it wouldn’t matter what the words were saying, it wouldn’t matter if followers on Twitter or Instagram made a huge deal over it, it wouldn’t matter, because anything negative or hurtful would be sufficiently contained in that blurry mess of light and buzzing that was Victor’s phone.

 

Yuuri filled his glass and settled back down onto the pillows; he reached for the card which explained the television offerings and decided that there wasn’t anything worthy of his time.  He could turn on his phone and put his earbuds in, but that would mean that there would be two buzzing flickering pieces of plastic in the room, and Yuuri didn’t think he could keep himself from viewing the News, the Reactions, the Negative Comments…

 

Oh God...did Victor just Out Himself and take Yuuri along for the ride?  In front of The World?!

 

Okay.  Breathe.  Take a sip of the Champ, and breathe.

 

It wasn’t really like that, was it?  They just, sort of, did what plenty of Coaches and skaters did at the Kiss and Cry anyway; there was a reason it was called that, right?  They just got a head start. It was Fine.

 

Sure.  Sure, it was fine.  Sure, he was Overreacting.  Maybe. But maybe not. 

 

Victor didn’t seem to care, he didn’t seem to be worried about anything like that; Victor never really said anything officially about his personal life, but it was pretty much unspoken knowledge in their circles that women didn’t really have a chance with him, no matter that he could flirt with them and accept their Adoration with ease and even enthusiasm at times.   And there were always paparazzi around and Yuuri had seen and read plenty of gossip. If he believed everything he had read, Victor was most assuredly some kind of International Playboy, breaking hearts in far-flung places, hanging around the Beautiful People of the world, and probably having his pick of men wherever and whenever he wanted. 

 

But that was the Image the fansites and the blogs and that social media gossip presented, it was the image that fans had of him; Yuuri knew that well enough.  Yuuri also knew, however, that none of Victor’s official press comments or his official interviews ever said anything at all. When a reporter would ask something personal, Victor would change the subject so smoothly that the question was dropped and redirected, sometimes into stories about some recent battle between Makkachin and some Particularly Bold Squirrel who dared to tread into the dog’s territory to be chased away.

 

Yuuri was not with Victor every moment of every day in Hasetsu; his sanity could probably not withstand that.  There were plenty of nights when Yuuri would dismiss himself to his room to play video games or to mess around on his computer, and he left Victor to his own devices.  It was probably rude, but Yuuri was a man who could only take so much. He could only take so much of Victor’s personal space issue, he could only take so much of trying to restrain himself every single fucking day from blurting out something stupid, he could only take so much of not allowing his other feelings to bubble up to the surface for anyone to see, like the cloud of steam that rose into view from the hot springs at home …

 

He could only take So Much.

 

And so Victor had plenty of time to hook up with someone.  He had plenty of time to select one of the many townspeople who would sometimes take an indirect route to wherever they were going and pass by the onsen because they knew he was there. He had plenty of freedom to do that; it wasn’t like Yuuri had laid any specific claim, and it wasn’t as though Victor wouldn’t be able to have his pick.

 

_ Is there anything specific you want? _

 

Yes.  Yes, there was.  There were a lot of Things, actually.  Things he probably shouldn’t be wanting, Things that definitely crossed the line of propriety between Idiot Coach and Idiot Student.

 

Things he thought Victor should prefer to have with someone else, and yet, he declined his invitation from Chris, and he took care of him, and he wanted to stay in with him…

 

At least, for now.

 

And Yuuri had also noticed that the fan-sites had slowed down too.  He hadn’t seen any grainy photos of Victor and Chris making out at a bar this season.  Or even last season, really. Come to think of it, when was the last time he’d seen any “new” paparazzi Material like that?  It had been a while. He didn’t delude himself into thinking that Victor and Chris were over per se, but, even here at this competition, he would have thought Chris would have been more insistent about spending time with Victor, and likely without Yuuri tagging along to interrupt them.

 

So Yuuri wondered.  It had long been speculated that they were on-again, off-again, or that they were just friends with benefits.  But neither ever commented on it, but the pictures didn’t lie either. Now, he supposed, there would be a zillion pictures of him in that position of Kissing Victor, not Chris, and Yuuri wondered if that was really going to be okay.

 

God, he hoped that the JSF or the ISU wouldn’t fine them or anything...maybe he should be checking his phone for that.

 

He heard the water shut off in the shower; that was a  _ very _ quick shower by Victor’s standards.  Yuuri had a small flash of concern that maybe he had used all of the hot water, and he made a mental note to apologize for that, maybe, as he heard Victor rummaging about in his massive travel kit for whatever products he was planning to use for his daily regimen of skin and hair care.

 

Talk about High Maintenance, Yuuri thought, and the thought brought a little chuckle to his throat, and, amazingly, it relaxed him.  The fansites didn’t know Victor’s favorite L’Occitane skin serum, the fans probably didn’t know about his French-milled organic soaps, his ridiculous collection of bath bombs ordered from places on every continent that would deliver them to Hasetsu, and his 10 different hair treatment whatevers, or that he was religious about moisturizing and texturizing, and all sorts of other “-izings” for both skin and hair; it was _A_ _Lot._

 

The first time Victor experimented with performance styling for Yuuri’s own hair, the younger received a very extensive education about it, most of which he managed to forget because of the fact that Victor Nikiforov Was Combing His Hair, but he remembered the key points of the conversation.

 

“What type of product do you use, Yuuri?”  Victor had asked when he was pulling the comb through and looking at different ways of parting and fluffing and whatever-ing in the mirror.

 

“Uh, whatever’s on sale at the supermarket,” he had replied, and, oh, was that ever a Mistake.

 

Victor made a scandalized noise and dropped the comb.  “Show me,” he had said, with absolute deadly seriousness in his tone, and Yuuri, sensing that it wasn’t up for debate, went to retrieve his stuff from the bathroom.

 

One by one, Victor examined the bottles.  It didn’t matter that he couldn’t read the labels; he opened each cap, poured a drop on his thumb, gave it a little sniff, and rubbed it together with his forefinger and vetoed them all, invoking Coach’s Orders and banning him from using anything less than at least salon-quality if not a luxe brand.  

 

It meant that Victor had placed himself in charge of buying all of his hair stuff, and Yuuri found that he was okay with it, even if he had no real idea if it actually made a difference at all.  

 

Those moments in time...no fan was seeing that.  No fan was getting Victor to buy their shampoo and conditioner for them.  No fan was listening to Victor blow dry his hair in an en suite bathroom in China while waiting for a room service dinner.  No fan was sharing a room with Victor tonight.

 

No fan won a Silver Medal tonight.

 

That’s right, Yuuri thought; the private moments had added up in all these months, and they were only for him.  Could it be that he really was the only one who could satisfy Victor, even off the ice?

 

The door to the en suite opened and Victor reappeared; God he was so Beautiful, his nude upper body smooth and chiseled, and he was wearing one of his ten pairs of his favorite yoga pants which sat ridiculously low on his hips, the drawstrings left untied.  Victor could make anything a fashion statement, of that Yuuri was convinced. He could wear the cheapest, rattiest t-shirt and sweat-shorts, and look like he would not be out of place on set for a photo shoot.

 

Or he could wear nothing at all.

 

Seeing Victor in various stages of undress was not anything new; after all, the day he showed up at the onsen all those months ago, Yuuri.exe stopped working when the man of his dreams stood up buck naked in the bath and informed him that not only was he going to be Yuuri’s coach, but that Yuuri was going to Win.

 

An Idiot Coach, right from day one.

 

Victor Nikiforov was not body shy, that was for sure.  How many times had he turned around to carry on a conversation only to snap his head back because Victor was babbling while stretching in the nude?  Yuuri seriously was amazed he hadn’t stroked out by now for all the times he’d had to tear his gaze away quickly before it fell to places that would surely be impolite.

 

Not that he didn’t want to see all of him, though…

 

Not that he didn’t want to touch…

 

Not that he didn’t want to worship those rock-hard abs and those sculpted pecs and…

 

Shit.

 

He drank the rest of the Champagne in his glass in one go as Victor reached inside of a drawer to select a t-shirt for himself.  Breathe.

 

A soft knock signaled that their dinner had arrived, and Yuuri had the feeling of being saved by the bell when Victor reached into his coat pocket for his wallet before answering the door.  Maybe Yuuri could just have a decent meal, splash some cold water on his face, brush his teeth, and go to sleep buzzed enough to be able to put off the worry over The Kiss for the following day.

 

Once the serving cart had been brought in, Victor moved the table closer to the bed.  “I can sit up for dinner, Victor, really. I’m not an invalid,” Yuuri said, not quite able to turn down the sarcastic clip to his words.

 

Victor exhaled.  “I’m not going to feed you or anything,” he replied quietly, “but I still want that foot up.”

 

Yuuri knew that Victor absolutely was going to offer to feed him, and not only would that be a no, but a Fuck. No.  He couldn’t handle that right now.

 

Not when he was already wound up even through his exhaustion from seeing a sliver of Victor’s skin between the hem of his shirt and those low-hung pants  _ every goddamn time _ he reached over the table to set their places-

 

That’s It.

 

Yuuri swung his legs over and stood.  “I’m fine. See?”

 

Victors lips turned downward just slightly as he reached for his chopsticks.  “Okay.”

 

Oh crap.  Did he just Fuck Up somehow?  Yuuri _ really _ wasn’t sure about that reaction.  Did Victor...like taking care of him?  Did he like...babying him? Yuuri was not used to being spoiled, well, other than by his mom, of course.

 

Yuuri brought over his chair and sat down with Victor; he took a drink of water as Victor topped off their glasses with Champagne.  “Well then, let’s eat, shall we?” Victor said sweetly, smiling, but Yuuri could tell that the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. Shit.  Fix it, Yuuri. Victor always met him where he was, and sometimes he really did overstep, but Yuuri had to admit to himself that he wasn’t all that great at reciprocating most of the time.

 

Yuuri mumbled a quick “itadakimasu” and then he put his chopsticks down.   “Can I...try some of yours?”

 

Victor swallowed his bite of food and put his own chopsticks down to pass him his bowl.

 

“No.  Not like that.”

 

God.  Words were escaping.   _ Escaping!  _  Where the hell was his filter?  He hadn’t had that much to drink.  His heart was beating fast, he could hear it in his ears.  Was he about to have a heart attack? What the hell was he Doing?!  

 

Victor put his bowl back down, never leaving his gaze as he reclaimed the chopsticks within his grasp.  He plucked a piece of chicken between them and held it for a second before raising it. “Like this?”

 

Yuuri nodded, and Victor reached over and Yuuri took the small morsel in his own mouth and chewed it, the sweet and sour taste of the sauce glancing his taste buds as he swallowed.  It wasn’t bad at all. “Vkusno.”

 

Victor’s eyes widened and he reached for another piece of food, and Yuuri waited.  “Care for another?”

 

“Hm.”

 

Yuuri ate another bite of Victor’s food, and he could see the smile soften and finally reach the elder man’s eyes.  Good. This was Good. He could do this much, if it made Victor happy.

 

“May I sample a bite of yours?”  Victor asked quietly, almost hopeful in his tone.  Didn’t Victor know that this was all kinds of Indirect Kissing?  Did he understand what they were doing here? How...forward it was?  Yuuri wasn’t sure if the man completely understood the level of what they were doing, but maybe that was okay.  Yuuri understood plenty for them both.

 

Yuuri answered Victor’s question with a bite from his own plate raised to Victor’s mouth.  Victor delicately removed the food and ate it, making a small hum of satisfaction that had no right to send through him the jolts of excitement that he was starting to feel.  This was just dinner. They had eaten together plenty of times, Victor often sneaking bites from his plate or outright finishing it for him when he felt the serving was more calories than Yuuri actually needed.  But this was so very Different; Victor had held up food for him to sample before, but Yuuri always declined taking it directly from Victor’s hands or fork or whatever. 

 

The atmosphere in the room was shifting to Yuuri’s perceptions as they ate the rest of their meal, chatting a bit about the programs, making small talk about what mischief the others were probably getting into at the bar, sipping the Champagne.  Throughout the meal, there was a give and take of each other’s food, fed to each of them by the other’s hand, until it had become comfortable and almost insanely  _ natural  _  by their respective last bites. 

 

Yuuri would never tire of Victor’s smile, he thought there could be no expression he would most want to see on another human being.  But Victor’s look of surprise was also good, his look of shock when Yuuri pushed himself further on his own merits as he wanted and craved for Victor Nikiforov to think him worthy of his time.

 

_ To keep the Living Legend stolen away... _

 

Victor cleared their plates and tucked the cart outside into the corridor as Yuuri excused himself  into the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth. Victor joined him then, and the irritating noise of his sonic toothbrush began because, Of Course, he couldn’t just have a regular toothbrush, and, of course, he couldn’t just stop there without inspecting his face for any evidence of imperfection before adding more skin serum to what he had explained to Yuuri once were “Potential Problem Areas”.  Whatever.

 

Yuuri finished first and went back out into the room.  It wasn’t high class luxury, but it was what their stipend from the JSF had allowed, and still, Yuuri’s heart beat faster, and still Victor’s ignored cellphone sat there on the table buzzing and lighting up, and still there were remnants of alcohol in the Champagne bottle, and still Victor had Kissed Him.

 

And Yuuri felt a calm settle in; surely it was an illusion, his pulse had been racing all through their meal, all through their comfortable chatting, all through their sharing their food so intimately.  Maybe the Champagne was helping a little, but maybe it was just Victor, being with him, sharing with him…

 

Opening himself up more to him…

 

“Ready for a good night’s sleep?”  the man asked kindly, bringing Yuuri back into the here and now, in the basic room, with the basic amenities, the only shining bit of luxe the silver medal and ornate floral medley on the table, the metallic disk glinting in the light of the single bedside lamp.

 

“Victor…?”

 

“Hmm?”  the named replied, taking his phone from the table to plug it in to its charger;  Yuuri noted that he turned it off first too. He lifted the medal again and held it within his hands.  “You were amazing, Yuuri. You are amazing.”

 

Yuuri let the words wash over him, basking in their warmth so much so that he could barely put one foot in front of the other to reach his bed.  Since Victor was by the table, Yuuri stood between the two double beds offered by the room and watched as Victor folded the ribbon of his medal and walked back to the room’s closet to retrieve its wooden box.  “We’ll put this in the hotel safe tomorrow morning before we leave for the day. I don’t want this going anywhere but home with us.”

 

Home?

 

Us?

 

Was there...an “Us” now?  Yuuri didn’t know. Of course, they were an “us” insofar as they were Idiot Coach and Idiot Student, but, was there another “us” that Yuuri could hold onto, an “us” that was more than what his official JSF paperwork identified them to be?

 

The box snapped shut and Victor moved to the other side of his own bed, and Yuuri watched, unmoving, as Victor lifted the remaining pillows and turned down the bedclothes.  He was about to lift off his shirt when Yuuri heard his own voice: “Victor?”

 

Victor stopped and looked at him, and there was a hint of a confused expression in his eyes, but he said nothing.  Yuuri took a breath. Now that he had spoken, Victor was waiting. Of course he didn’t know what Yuuri was about to ask,  of course he didn’t understand what Yuuri was struggling with inside, the fear of rejection, the fear of acceptance both waging an equal battle of something in his brain that could hardly be called wits.  “What is it Yuuri?”

 

Oh God, this was so bad.  So. Bad. He should just dish out one of his “neverminds” and call it a day, but he had experienced something tonight that, months ago,  he thought he’d never experience again: skating a podium performance at a Grand Prix event, against some of the world’s top skaters, with one notable absence.  But that notably absent competitor was standing by him as his Coach, encouraging him, pushing him…

 

Sharing the very food from his plate, the very touch of his hands on his battered feet, and the soft press of lips upon his mouth…

 

“What...are we?” he blurted out, and Victor stood up with a look of concern that Yuuri absolutely did not want to see.  His mind was playing a sort of tennis match inside, and the thoughts on Doubt’s team just scored point on the first serve.

 

There were a few beats of silence before Victor just flashed him a smile and a wink.  “You are a sleepy Silver Medalist and I’m your Idiot Coach.”

 

No.   _ No _ .  What Victor said wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the truth Yuuri was after either.  Didn’t he ask this Idiot Coach not to lie to him? Did Victor already forget?

 

“No. What  _ are _ we, Victor…,” he repeated, “has it...changed?”

 

Victor’s expression fell a little and he leaned back against the wall, obviously thinking that Yuuri needed a couple of more feet of distance between them.  No, that wasn't right. Damn it. Why couldn’t Yuuri just ask him outright? Why was he like this, trying to ask questions in a way that was obviously a test, a test where not even he knew the correct answer, so how could he expect Victor to know?  Didn’t he yell at this Idiot Coach for saying things like this, like they were some kind of test that Yuuri felt like was was destined to fail? Was he really this Selfish and Hypocritical? 

 

“Is change a bad thing?”  Victor whispered.

 

Oh.

 

Okay.

 

Victor was not stupid.  That clue phone was ringing, and Victor definitely picked it up; he knew this was a test.  He probably thought that Yuuri was not doing it intentionally, but maybe Yuuri was. Maybe Yuuri was being a manipulative bitch for asking it that way; Phichit called his ass out on that so many times when they lived together, when Yuuri’s brain made him say things that made Phichit glare at him and tell him what an Insensitive Fuck he could be when the mood struck him, when his anxiety took control before he would give anyone around him a chance to help him rein it in so that he wouldn’t be constantly battling it alone, those solitary efforts often ending with less than stellar results.  It startled Yuuri to think that maybe Victor’s “Answer the question with another question” was Victor’s own form of self-preservation, a way to deflect without outright telling a lie, a way to test him right back, a way to coax out the honesty and desire that was currently the love to the fifteen points in the tennis match in Yuuri’s screwed up head.

 

“Not always,”  Yuuri finally answered.  “But...I need to know. What we are.”

 

That’s it.  Yuuri felt the heat rise to his cheeks and one of his fists involuntarily clenched at his side until he had the will to release it, but another volley had begun, and now the ball was back in Victor’s proverbial court.

 

“It’s okay, Yuuri,”  Victor began, but there was caution in his tone.  “We don’t have to define anything you don’t want to.  Nothing has to change.”

 

Shit.   _Shit._    Did he just back himself into a corner?  It wasn’t Victor’s fault. It was his own fault, with all his Irrational Bullshit, and his mixed signals.  God damn it. He _was_ giving mixed signals.  He was leaving them all over the place, skating Eros with one singular purpose, the purpose of _seducing_ _Victor Nikiforov_ , only to shut down with his internal ridiculousness what had been one of the most intimate evenings of his life and its pathetic lack of experience.  Why was he remembering Phichit trying to help him when he got pissed off for no rational reason, his best friend scolding him back into rationality by informing him that he really needed “to learn How To People someday!”?

 

No.  What if he woke up in the morning and Victor had decided to put more distance between them, just like right now, when he had stepped as far away as the dimensions of the room would allow?  What if he awoke with Victor gone from his bed, out doing his normal Morning Person Things whilst Yuuri slept for every possible second, and nothing had changed at all?

 

Did Yuuri want that?

 

Did he want to keep doing this, this Denial, this shutting Victor out when his real desire was to let Victor in closer than he had ever let in anyone else before?

 

Wasn’t Victor Nikiforov worth at least his honesty since he had put his own amazing life on hold to be an Idiot Coach to somebody like him?

 

Victor Nikiforov had kissed him after his Free Skate, in front of a packed arena, aired on international media.

 

Yuuri would never have done that, had their roles been reversed.  He would never have done it. He would have never taken a chance on someone like him.

 

But Victor did take that chance.

 

Maybe Yuuri needed to meet him where he was for a change.  Maybe that was the change he could make, as he heard Victor exhale toward his non-response, and as he saw the man fluff his pillows and again reach for the hem of his shirt to pull it off-

 

“No.  With….me.”

 

Oh God.  Was he doing this?  Was he actually Doing This?  How much had he had to drink?  It wasn’t much. He wasn’t even buzzed, unless the buzzing in his ears and the ridiculous throb of his pulse point counted, which they probably did, but-

 

“Yuuri….?”

 

Say it, Idiot.  

 

“The bed, uh, I mean...my bed.”

 

Victor’s eyes were searching him now, that air of caution settling in his demeanor because clearly, Yuuri couldn’t form a coherent sentence, and, clearly, he couldn’t expect Victor to know what the hell he was on about, and, clearly-

 

“I...don’t understand.”

 

Of course Victor didn’t understand.  Of course he couldn’t tell what he meant with just that, of course Victor wasn’t a goddamn mind reader, which was probably a Good Thing, because, really, if he could read Yuuri’s mind even one-fifth of the time in which they spent together, he would probably have run off by now, and-

 

“Sleep in my bed with me.”

 

Oh God.   Oh shit. He said it.  He actually Said It. He couldn’t fight it, and he abruptly turned away, fixing his gaze on a chip in the surface of the room’s table, staring at it for all he was worth, as if the small defect was mocking him, telling him that he just screwed this up, that maybe he should consider moving to another room, that maybe he should do a complete cop-out and blame the Champagne.  Oh dear God, did he actually just  _ tell _ Victor Nikiforov to sleep in the same bed with him?!  He didn’t even ask! He didn’t even say please! What if Victor-

 

The next sensation he felt was the warmth of Victor’s embrace, Victor’s chest pressed up against his back and his breath upon his neck, holding him tightly, as if Victor didn’t believe the words he said, as though he was holding him as if his life depended on it.  And it felt Amazing, and Yuuri’s pulse was racing, and he could feel Victor’s heartbeat rushing to meet the pace of his own and, oh God, he wanted this, wanted Victor, Wanted-

 

“I would love to sleep in your bed.  With you,” Victor whispered into his hair.

 

He should probably try to go to bed.

 

He should probably Move Now.

 

He should probably move.

 

Or Breathe.

 

Or Something.  

 

Right?

 

But Victor wasn’t letting him go either.

 

And maybe that was...okay; maybe it was Okay that they weren’t really making an effort to reach the bed.

 

Maybe Yuuri didn’t have to move right this second.

 

He should probably start breathing again, though. Or Something.

 

Probably.

 


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Every kudos, bookmark, and comment is like a little miracle to me. Thank you so very much for giving your time to this story. I'm truly grateful.  
> ~C

_ I would love to sleep in your bed.  With you. _

 

Yuuri felt like his brain shut everything else out except those words, but, as always, Victor brought him back again.

 

“I would love to kiss you again too, but...sleeping next to you...It’s more than enough.  I’m happy, Yuuri. I’m happy that you want me sleeping by your side.”

 

“How could I not want you…,” he breathed, barely finding enough oxygen to push enough air to speak the words, the warmth surrounding him, the knowledge that Victor wanted to kiss him again:  it sent his senses reeling, his inhales and exhales creating a ripple of fabric on his shirt with each expansion of his lungs, and Victor held him through the spoken words. Yuuri could feel Victor’s cheek still pressed into his hair, the warm breath through the strands.  Waiting. He was waiting for him. Waiting for More. 

 

And Yuuri did want more.

 

“Kiss me again.”

 

Victor didn’t move; in fact, it felt as though he was holding his breath for a few seconds before he exhaled once more.  “Are you sure? You don’t have t-”

 

“Kiss me again.”

 

The arms around him loosened slightly, and one of Victor’s hands trailed down the side of his body so lightly, not timid, but gentle, before it landed on the bone of his hip with the slightest of tugs, an invitation for Yuuri to turn around.

 

And Yuuri did turn around, his head not quite ready to lift fully toward Victor’s face, not ready to look into the blue eyes that could defy their place on the color wheel among all of the cool colors when Victor would look at him with such warmth; Yuuri Wasn’t Ready, despite the confident sounding command  that managed to tumble its way out of his mouth in a voice more assured than he actually was. 

 

So Victor kissed him on top of his head.

 

Because that’s where Yuuri was.

 

But, was that where Yuuri wanted to be?

 

No.

 

No.

 

He wasn’t a child.  Maybe Victor liked to baby him, and maybe he needed to learn to give into that sometimes instead of being low-key annoyed about it, but he wasn’t a baby.  He was soon to be twenty-four, he wasn’t totally devoid of intimate knowledge. When he skated Eros now, he knew exactly what he was doing. He knew exactly what was the goal.  Even in the Free, Yuuri knew, that if he could just make his body create the music for the program, that if he could express with the extensions of his free leg and with the passion of his steps, and the grace of his moves in the field, that he could become closer to Victor, that Victor would see the skater he wanted to be for him.

 

So that next time, he could win Gold, knowing that Victor Nikiforov wouldn’t take his eyes off of him while he danced upon the blades.

 

Yuuri knew he wanted to set ablaze a fire in Victor’s very heart, and he wanted to touch, and taste, and breathe him in, to let him in to his most personal of spaces.

 

He had known that he wanted this, wanted Victor in some form or another since he was twelve and watching that beat-up television at the Ice Castle, watching a younger Victor perform in the costume that was now his: the most beautiful skater he had ever seen, a boy prettier than his Pretty Girl Standard, Yuuko-chan, a boy who took to the ice like a fish to water, being born from it, or maybe in it, or made of it, twelve-year-old Yuuri didn’t know, but the Spell had been cast with that program skated in Sofia, Bulgaria.  And there was something else discovered while watching that program; maybe it was in the spiral sequence, or maybe it was the nimble footwork and the powerful jumps when Yuuri felt that first lone butterfly flutter away in his stomach, glancing with its wings something lower, and maybe it was a little embarrassing, something unknown happening to his body that his twelve-year-old self couldn’t explain and dared not to try because it was odd and stirring yet felt so honest at the same time.

 

Years went by, and that naive honesty turned into realizations, and truths, but, by that time, Victor was so far away; the more Yuuri worked himself to death to meet him on the same playing field, Victor would raise the bar again, setting that Standard so high that Yuuri thought he would never reach it, and, when he finally did, when he had finally made it to Sochi, life decided to fuck with him, and he failed spectacularly.

 

And then, Victor came into his life, showed up at his  _ house _ …

 

And now, here they were.  Holding each other, breathing in synch, hearts beating and reverberating against each others’ clothed flesh, thin cotton separating their individual skins, and Victor had just kissed him on top of his head, because there was still that bubble of unworthiness percolating in Yuuri’s brain that was telling him it was all some kind of dream, that The Kiss after the Free, in front of the packed arena, aired on international media never happened, that they hadn’t fed each other their dinner, that Yuuri hadn’t invited Victor to sleep with him in his bed-

 

But he had.  He did. 

 

And, oh, how he wanted More.

 

By some miracle, or by some deep understanding of him that Yuuri didn’t think Victor to possess, Yuuri felt a slender finger trace its way to his chin and lift his head.  Yuuri hadn’t realized he closed his eyes as the thoughts rushed in like a playback of one’s life flashing before one’s eyes in a moment right before death-

 

“Yuuri…?”

 

A question, in the form of his name.  And the tone, oh, he was starting to recognize that one, the one Victor used when he wasn’t sure what next would come out of Yuuri’s mouth: at worst, an Ugly-Cry-Fest-Panic-Attack like what had happened earlier in the day, or, less bad, a frustrated “Haaaaah?!”, or a string of muttered Japanese expletives over a flubbed jump in practice, or his Press Conference Rambling that reeked of truth serums that didn’t even exist.

 

Now was not the time to be uncertain, was it?  

 

No.  Not. Anymore.

 

He opened his eyes, and he could see that Victor visibly relaxed, his finger still softly tucked underneath his chin.  “There you are.”

 

Yuuri didn’t want to think.  He didn’t want to think about what he was about to do, he didn’t want to think about the absolute shock and awe that was rushing through his veins along with his blood that he would be in this situation with this gorgeous man, with Victor.

 

He didn’t want to Think anymore.  Maybe he could push the doubt aside, and just admit to himself that he was an Idiot, and that it was okay to be an Idiot, just this once.  He’d kissed before. It was only kissing. It was only-

 

Before he knew it, he was leaning up and Victor leaned down to meet him and their lips touched.  Oh God. He was kissing Victor.

 

Soft.

 

Smooth lips upon his own, a gentle press as Victor slid the finger from his chin to his cheek, joined by the touch of the rest of his hand on Yuuri’s face.  And Yuuri felt his cheek warm to meet the touch, and he knew he was probably making a Stupid Face, but maybe Victor had his eyes closed too, the slipping away of vision allowing for the focus to the touch, chaste, warm, and so very careful.

 

Careful.

 

Victor was being careful with him.

 

But did Yuuri want careful, exactly?

 

Was he careful when he launched that final quad flip?  It wasn’t perfect, far from it; there was a lot of work to do, but it caused the kiss from before to happen, didn’t it?  It meant that Victor had seen him, had watched his entire program; he had seen his strength to try to reach him.

 

The kiss lapsed and Victor pulled back, a small smile on his face, private and sweet, and meant only for him.  “I’ve wanted to do that...for a long time now,” he whispered. 

 

“You have?”

 

Victor nodded.

 

“With...me?”

 

God.  Why did he have to keep asking that?  But he needed the reassurance, he needed to know that, at least for now, there was no one else in the world that Victor wanted to kiss.

 

“Yes, with you, Yuuri.”

 

Okay.  

 

“I have wanted to do that for a long time too.  With you.”

 

Victor had no idea for how long, but Yuuri didn’t care.  The Kiss on the ice wasn’t a fluke. It wasn’t a stunt. And Yuuri sent a quick mental prayer of thanks to all the gods he knew that had brought him to this place, to a place where Victor had launched himself on the ice and reached him, and that it led to where they were now, on the precipice of a change in them, on the cusp of something new, yet not somehow, on the border of shifting what they were to what they could become until the Grand Prix Final.

 

So Yuuri abandoned the Doubt and allowed himself to feel the confidence build; Victor wanted to be here, Victor had wanted to kiss him.  

 

And Yuuri wanted more than that, and maybe, just maybe, he could complete the seduction born from the choreography that Victor had created for him.

 

Victor’s hand was still on his cheek, and Yuuri realized that his own were still by his sides.  He raised his right hand and lightly weaved his fingertips through the fine silver strands that fell over that pretty face and Yuuri really looked at Victor.  God, he was Beautiful; even his eyelashes were light, almost translucent. Delicate.

 

“Is everything okay?”

 

Oh, it was more than “okay”, it was so much more that Yuuri could barely stand it.  Maybe he wasn’t very experienced, maybe he didn’t have anyone before this that he would ever classify as a “Lover”, and maybe he had always managed to stop himself just before breaching that final barrier with anyone else, satisfied with fleeting moments of pleasure in darkened rooms or at the more wild of parties, where the feeling of bodies joining in dance had flooded over into kisses and touching and too-awkward and rushed handjobs, or within the strict confines of his twin sized dormitory bed where drunken, sloppy forays into lust had played out before, where he felt eager mouths devour him and he took the pleasure selfishly, thinking that it would be just that much better if only it were Victor Nikiforov himself and not just his poster that pushed him over the edge of release.

 

And now Victor was here by his side, asking him if he was okay.  He was still waiting, not making any additional moves, not pushing further than the chaste kisses, and Yuuri wanted more.  Maybe it was the residual buzz from the Champagne, maybe it was the thrill of being on the podium, maybe he was a little drunk with tiredness, but he could feel that pull of attraction building when he looked upon Victor’s face, those pretty features focused only on him, made soft and warm in the low light of the room.

 

“Yuuri…?”

 

Yuuri lowered his hand from Victor’s hair, and still, Victor was waiting for an answer, waiting for him to say something, but Yuuri couldn’t find the words, not when he was barely centimeters away from the man he had worshipped as a skating god for so long, so close that he could feel the warmth of Victor’s body filling the small gap of space between them.  

 

So he didn’t use Words at all.

 

Yuuri jumped into that firm body, throwing his arms around the man’s shoulders, and he placed  his lips on Victor’s graceful neck, just below the lobe of his ear. He could feel Victor’s heartbeat quicken again, and a small breath hitched itself in Victor’s throat.  Finally, he was able to speak: “Please, take care of me.”

 

For whatever reason, Victor’s body shuddered where he stood, as if the words were something Victor was waiting to hear, as if they were a memory and not something new, and Victor’s arms went around him, and the fingertips that had abruptly stopped themselves from threading through his hair at the rink were given permission to explore, and, oh, this might be the edge of heaven, feeling Victor’s tender fingers lift the strands and replace them, lifting and replacing, with a light brush of fingertips against his scalp.  

 

Yuuri turned his head a little and their lips met again, and Yuuri decided that he didn’t want to remain on the edge of heaven anymore.  He pushed back a little through the kiss and Victor responded by taking his lower lip and tugging ever so slightly. It was an invitation; Yuuri knew that without thinking, he knew that without doubting what Victor was wordlessly saying, and so Yuuri tugged back until he felt the seal of their kiss open up as Victor’s lips parted, warm, toothpaste-scented breath mingling with his own.  Yuuri slipped his tongue just barely inside Victor’s mouth and he felt the man shudder again before he froze, allowing Yuuri to trace his bottom lip before the kiss broke and Victor was kissing his temple and whispering something into his hair in breathy Russian. He was pulled in so tightly, impossibly close with Victor’s body, so close that Yuuri couldn’t help but to notice the awakening between them. 

 

_ Stealing Victor Nikiforov from the world is the gravest of sins. _

 

If that was true, then Yuuri would be a Sinner.  He would be a sinner for as long as Victor would allow for himself to be stolen, for as long as the man held him so tightly within his arms, as if he was afraid that Yuuri might abruptly call for a halt, as if this was like the fulfillment of a dream to him too, a concept that Yuuri couldn’t quite believe was possible, but here they were.

 

As crazy or as unlikely as it was, Yuuri knew that in this moment, Victor also wanted him.  And Yuuri would give it. He’d give Victor whatever he would take, he’d give Victor whatever would please him, he’d give and give and give until he collapsed as long as he could have this night with the man he had desired for so long.

 

He knew Victor would take care of him; he would probably guide him to fill the gaps in his own inexperience at some point, but Yuuri knew enough.  Maybe it was better that all the blood seemed to be rushing netherward from his brain, maybe it was fine to be close enough to Victor to smell the finely milled soap on his skin, maybe it was right to feel their heartbeats racing in their chests; God Victor had always been Beautiful.  Yuuri remembered those thoughts from years ago, that Victor looked like some kind of angel on the ice, prettier than the girls in his class. Classroom boredom evolved into the occasional wondering if Victor Nikiforov was an actual human being, because, really, who looked like that? Yuuri had never seen someone before or since, male or female, who was as beautiful as the man holding him tightly within the embrace and telling him things in Russian whispers that he didn’t understand.  To say nothing of the beauty he created on the ice, Victor, the man, may well have captured his heart anyway, but his skating had always been an inspiration to Yuuri, something to strive for, something to emulate and grow from, and now, just maybe, Victor, the man, would accept his feelings, accept his body, would take him into that next level where physical and mental borderlands could be withered away, to allow for a closeness Yuuri never thought he would ever be able to have with another human being.

 

So if he had to be a Sinner to experience that with Victor for once in his life, or for however long the gods would permit his selfishness and greed, he would sin his way through to the Grand Prix Final and take every chance he could to steal Victor completely away from everyone else.

 

As if Victor had sensed to where his thoughts just strayed, he ran the tender fingers through his hair again, then down to the nape of his neck, a ghosting touch that had Yuuri choking on the breath in his throat, then down to his shoulders, his back, and down the ridges of his ribcage, sensation dulled by the thin cotton of his t-shirt over skin that seemed to alight with fiery heat toward every glancing touch until Victor’s hands rested on his hips.  All through the touches, Yuuri studied Victor’s face, his closed eyes, the near-translucent lashes that almost brushed his cheek, his pink lips parted just slightly as though they we waiting to be captured again, that if Yuuri would just make a definitive move, Victor would be willingly stolen and his.

 

His.

 

Victor could be  _ His _ .

 

And those parted pink lips may as well be the gateway to Yuuri’s Ultimate Sin, where the passion he was keeping at bay off the ice could be set free if he would simply stop making Victor wait for him to choose; Victor always tried to meet him halfway, but Yuuri didn’t want the halfway anymore.  He would cover the remaining distance himself, and take Victor Nikiforov with him.

 

Complete seduction, complete want, complete thievery of Victor Nikiforov: that selfish and greedy part of him was overriding all the panic over that first kiss at the rink, and Yuuri did not wish to lose the moment, to have it dissolve into those destructive thought patterns that hung on the edges of his brain to topple him into notions that were irrationally untrue most of the time.  Selfishness and Greed were certainly irrational too, but, like getting into the athletic zone on the ice throughout the programs, it took over his body, cleared his mind, and the only thoughts that remained were of his Idiot Coach, his friend, and, at least for tonight, his stolen Victor.

 

Yuuri leaned in and initiated the next kiss; he wanted his body to speak the words that were failing him, and he captured Victor’s mouth. Yuuri didn’t wait but seconds before gently sliding his tongue inside the warmth, searching for Victor until Victor found him too, and, oh god, all of his thought barriers shattered because he was being kissed back, fervently, and Yuuri thought he might melt from the rush of heat each swipe of tongue shot through his very veins.  Victor’s hand gripped his hip more firmly before he slid it down, and Yuuri kept kissing him, hungrily, taking in the sensation of Victor being around him, inside of him with the caresses of each others’ mouths, and the hand, oh, the hand moving just that little bit lower, and the palm suddenly splaying out against his thigh and then strongly gripping it, fingertips that were so tender as they ran through his hair now betraying the strength they actually possessed as they dug into the meat of his thigh, bunching up the fabric of his sleep-shorts, the hem hitting all sorts of dangerous nerve endings on his leg.  As the kiss deepened, Yuuri felt awash with Want; it was fire, or electricity, or whatever cliche expression his distracted brain could attach to the sensation as Victor kissed him, and Yuuri had imagined this so many times, so many times when he would take himself in hand and wonder what it would be like to kiss and touch Victor Nikiforov, to have Victor Nikiforov kiss him and touch him and, oh gods, Victor suddenly grabbed his face with his hands and the kiss suddenly turned urgent, even frantic…

 

_ Desperate _ .

 

Yuuri felt overwhelmed by this as he kept up with Victor’s needful pace; this wasn’t how he imagined kissing Victor would be.  This wasn’t a vision of himself laying on his back as Victor confidently took charge and guided him to do all the things that would make them feel good.  This wasn’t that at all. This was something completely different, completely outside of that fantasy of Victor sweeping him off his feet and then taking pleasure from Yuuri’s body until the younger was sore and sated.  

 

Victor was not kissing him like he had all the answers, it was more like he had been searching for one answer for a very long time, and, maybe, he had found it, and maybe, he was desperate not ever to be without it, and maybe Victor needed This, needed Him, needed This Moment…

 

Maybe Victor was telling him with his feverish kisses that he wanted desperately to be stolen after all.

 

When need for breath forced the kiss to break, Yuuri opened his eyes to look upon Victor’s face; Victor’s eyes were still closed, his lips were slightly swollen from their kisses, and a dusting of pink shaded his cheeks.  The eyelids fluttered open and a hand rose to Yuuri’s cheek to cup his face. “Are you okay with this?” he whispered.

 

What kind of expression must he be making if Victor was asking him that?  Couldn’t Victor tell that he was an equal and eager participant in the intense kiss?  But, oh, Victor knew he didn’t have a lot of experience, so maybe Victor assumed that he had not only very little experience, but  _ zero _ experience?  Granted, Yuuri never really told him anything substantial, he didn’t offer anything but a “no comment” when Victor fist asked him bluntly about past lovers, and an irritated “Huuuuh?!” at the boards at practice, when Victor offhandedly suggested that it might help him to choose the music for the Free if he thought about a time someone confessed their love for him.  As if. But Yuuri didn’t clarify anything else, so who knew what Victor had put together in his own mind? It wasn’t as though Yuuri ever thought a Situation like this would actually happen, that he would actually be in a position where he was actually kissing Victor Nikiforov, who also happened to be his Idiot Coach…

 

“Yuuri?”

 

Victor’s eyes were searching, the low light not preventing Yuuri from seeing that fleck of green mixed in with the blue and the gaze shifting toward concern once more.  No. No! Yuuri didn’t want that, but why couldn’t he speak? Why couldn’t he say  _ anything?! _  Why couldn’t he-

 

Wait.

 

He could answer without Words, couldn’t he?  He could answer Victor’s question right this second by capturing his lips again and melting into Victor’s embrace again; he could surprise him more, couldn’t he?

 

One night, one time to love Victor and be loved by him, one decision to make that would mark the moment where all of Yuuri’s remaining innocence could be shed, so why was he  _ hesitating? _  Why was he hesitating, making Victor worry, making the man visibly try to calm his breaths and start to pull away from where their bodies were telling no lies to each other, Victor allowing him to collect his thoughts and evaluate their actions because that’s what he thought Yuuri was needing in this moment, but no.  No. 

 

No words to say.  

 

He wanted to nullify the space that Victor was trying to create between them, he wanted to pull Victor back in and not let him go.

 

He wanted to Satisfy Victor, to be the only one to satisfy him.

 

Yuuri had this chance to surprise the king of surprises once more, and with every second that Victor was giving him to rethink it, Yuuri was losing that chance.  He couldn’t let it slip away, he couldn’t retreat when Victor had bared himself in those desperate kisses, shocking him with his passion and desire and  _ need _ …

 

_ Stealing Victor Nikiforov from the world is the gravest of sins. _

 

Yuuri would be Hated for this, he would be a pariah to every other man or woman who wanted Victor for themselves, for all the people who may have had Victor in their beds before and failed to keep him, for all the people Victor did not choose to stay by his side.

 

_ Let them  _ **_all_ ** _ hate me. _

 

Before he realized it, Yuuri’s hands grabbed the bottom of his shirt and he whisked it off and tossed it aside to the floor, a truly unglamorous move, but one that fit his current mindset perfectly.  He saw Victor’s eyes widen and his lips part in surprise that he would do such a thing and reveal himself in that way, that he would take the first step for once, that Victor didn’t need to wait anymore for him.  “I’m here, Victor,” he said quietly, “if...you want me.”

 

He forced himself to keep looking into Victor’s eyes, to memorize each subtle shift of color that Yuuri found to be so mesmerizing: none of his posters or the magazine ads or tv cameras could capture that as it happened, the photos static, and tv cameras not finely tuned enough to see it, or, maybe, Victor had somehow trained his very eyes to lead his Media Darling expressions so that no fan, no regular person would see it ever.  And it fascinated Yuuri, seeing the man transform before his own eyes, the subtle and not-so-subtle facial expressions that he discovered belonged to the Real Victor, and he was starting to detect their meanings, and he was starting to figure it out, but…

 

Victor was still surprising him too, because the expression turned into something else that was new, and the effect was as startling and as powerful as were his movements on the ice that inspired him, inspired the World, and it was raw and naked and intense. When Victor’s gaze slipped, Yuuri could feel those icy blue eyes looking at his exposed upper body as if he had never seen it before, as if they hadn’t been sharing the hot springs together for months already, as if Victor hadn’t attended every single one of his costume fittings when the Eros costume of Victor’s youth needed some slight alterations to fit, or when the seamstress had the top portion of his Free skate costume on-and-off of him for the better part of a day so that the shoulders sat just so, so that the crystalline fleur de lis was exactly centered no matter what movements his body needed to create for the program.  No sooner had these thoughts rushed in, Victor’s gaze lifted. “Of course I want you.”

 

Oh God.

 

“But…”

 

_ What?! _  There was a “but” to this?!  Yuuri had stripped himself half-naked and now there was a  _ But _ ?!

 

Oh no.  This was Very Bad.  His shirt was too far away to shove it back on, there was barely a half a foot of space between them, and a bed behind him and only the sliver of floor space between the pair of beds available for an Escape, and he was trapped by Victor’s eyes and their serious expression, trapped and drowning in those twin pools of blue to where he could not look to plan a hasty and embarrassed retreat into the bathroom where he could slam the door and sink through the tiled floor and die before he would make of himself more of a Fool. He could feel his breaths quicken and shorten, and,  _ shit! _ , was it hot in here all of a sudden?!, and was he going to start sweating, or shivering or-

 

“I want you, Yuuri,”  Victor said firmly, attempting to ground him with his voice. However, there was definitely Something Else in its tone, something Victor felt was important enough to interrupt his panicked thoughts, important enough for him to hear.  Yuuri swallowed. He tried to slow his breathing, in, and out, and he focused on the sensation of the carpet underneath his feet; he was still standing, and, thankfully, not shaking yet, and-

 

“But only if you truly want  _ me.” _

 

What?!  How was that even an  _ issue _ ?!  Had Victor not  _ looked _ at himself lately?  Hadn’t they become closer, being just as they are with all of their quirks and imperfections?  Was Victor... _ worried _ about something?

 

“Victor…”

 

“Just…, if we,...after we,” he faltered, “just don’t disappear on me this time.  Please.”

 

Huh?  _ This time _ ?  What was Victor talking about?  Yuuri didn’t know. He didn’t understand.  Why would he leave? Why would he leave, when he was Wanting and Willing and-

 

It didn’t matter.  Maybe something just got lost in translation; it happened sometimes here and there, when their shared language of English didn’t quite hit the mark, or when Yuuri’s largely American colloquialisms, expressions he had unconsciously picked up during his five years living there without realizing it, when those sometimes needed a little explanation, or when one or the other of them got overly excited about something and streams of Russian or Japanese flowed between them before they caught themselves and laughed in spite of themselves and had to tell each other their stories all over again: it did happen.  Maybe that was it, and maybe Yuuri could shake off the nagging feeling that he was missing something very, very, Extremely Important here, because there was something even more important for him to do, to say, to-

 

“I won’t leave,”  Yuuri declared, and, instantly, relief colored Victor’s beautiful face, and his eyes darkened with want, and  _ yes! _ ,  he raked his stare over him again, reminding Yuuri that he was half naked, boldly shirtless, and the ground felt solid again, and his heart started beating again, and before he knew it, more Words came tumbling out of his mouth:  “How can I do that when I require that you never take your eyes off me?”

 

Victor seemed to snap to attention toward the words, and Yuuri didn’t even have time to be shocked with himself for saying them outside of their pre-skate pep talks at the boards.  “Yuuri…,” he breathed and a hand found its way to the base of his neck, the side of it resting on his collarbone and a gentle thumb making a tender trace of his jawline before he pulled it back.  “So beautiful,” he whispered, “of course I won’t take my eyes off you.”

 

“Then touch me too…”

 

And that was all it took for Victor to cup his face within his hands and lead him in another kiss, slow, languid, and deep this time, as if Victor wanted to savor and drag out every second to connect with him.  Yuuri felt the passion behind the depth of the kiss, and it solidified his purpose to steal these seconds and moments all for himself, to make himself the one thing Victor Nikiforov could not live without. This was Happening; was this what Victor did when he made love?  Was this what everyone did? Yuuri didn’t know. What should  _ he _ be doing besides responding in kind to a kiss that seemed to be conveying a million wordless messages about Victor’s feelings?  He had no idea. Were these Victor’s feelings? Or was this just how Victor Nikiforov loved anyone he took to bed? Yuuri didn’t know, but he couldn’t deny the force of it all, as if a dam had been broken and the flood that was Victor’s emotions as they spilled into his own mouth through the intimate connection filled Yuuri with as much feeling as when he watched the Living Legend skate.

 

So he would Take it, Steal it, and then give back as much as he could, for as long as the gods would permit.  Even if these moments would someday be relegated to a chapter in his life, treasured after it was closed, Yuuri could not have desired for anyone else to take him thoroughly in body, mind, and soul than the man he had idolized and had also come to love.

 

When the kiss lapsed and Victor pulled back, Yuuri watched as his eyes fluttered open once more and then he followed with his own eyes Victor’s hands as they slid from their grasp of his cheeks and down his neck, his shoulders, his biceps, a trail of heat and electricity left in the wake of hands normally cool to the touch.  He watched as the fingertips left his biceps and trailed with barely-there pressure upon his heaving chest, gently exploring the contours therin, and Yuuri watched as the palms joined the fingertips in the exploration, and the hands caressed every shape that was his body, every line of his musculature, even the ragged lines of evidence of rapid weight-gain and loss that dogged Yuuri throughout his competitive life of season and off-season.  Those marks that were so ugly to him, Victor seemed to revere. When the hands settled upon his hips again, Yuuri looked upon Victor’s face and he held his breath toward that fond and loving expression he was starting to see more and more, and maybe, just maybe, Yuuri could convince himself tonight that he deserved it.

 

He  _ craved _ for it.

 

The warm, tender touch should have made him feel safe and cozy, but, shockingly, it pulsed such a strong pang of arousal through to his gut that he almost could not contain it.  This vision of Devotion he was seeing in Victor’s eyes: it suddenly became like a sweet elixir, a drug that could cure all of his Doubt and replace it with desire. He wanted This.  He wanted Victor, just like this: Victor adoring him, loving him, wanting him in return, and, dear God, Yuuri had a flash of his own lust take over, a lust to have Victor naked, underneath him, wrecked and begging for him to love him, to  _ fuck _ him, oh God, was Yuuri really this type of person?

 

He blinked a few times to reset his brain.  There was no way it would end up like that. Of course, he had those Thoughts, and, for a very long time, Unrealistic Fantasy #1 was a vision of himself standing, maybe leaning against the boards at a rink, or maybe against the wall of a deserted locker room, or maybe against the tiles of a luxurious shower, with Victor Nikiforov on his knees, sucking him off.  Yeah, that had been Unrealistic Fantasy #1 for most of his late teens and, embarrassingly, even beyond that, followed closely by Unrealistic Fantasy #2: that he would recover quickly from the first fantasy, return the favor, and then fuck Victor to within an inch of his life in a huge bed, or a tiny bed, or in the bed that belonged to whomever was Victor’s latest reported tabloid “lover”,  just to claim him from whomever that was and to make Victor his.

 

But there were reasons that those two fantasies had always been categorized as Unrealistic: Victor was in another world away from him.  Yuuri barely knew him, he was Glamorous, and Successful, and he was portrayed as sort of a party-boy in the media, and his best friend-with-benefits was Chris Giacometti, and here Yuuri would forever be some dime-a-dozen skater from Japan, a pale vestige to the excitement and energy and magic that followed Victor Nikiforov in everything he did.  Of course, Yuuri had learned that the real Victor was not totally like the Image, he was funny, and warm, and awkward sometimes, and flakey as shit, and he was an Idiot Coach, and it was a relief to Yuuri that he was so much more and so much less than his “image” suggested.

 

However, that didn’t mean that he would presume that Victor would allow himself to be taken the way in which Yuuri wanted in those naughty thoughts, and it was okay.  It was more than okay, because there had always been other fantasies when Victor would take control and love him too, those were the more romantic thoughts where maybe he saw himself totally in Victor’s loving care, where he could forget worry over skating and school and People, and let Victor cast a spell upon him to shelter and protect him from anyone, even from himself.

 

So Yuuri would take this night, however Victor would lead him, and he would remember, and hold it close, and he didn’t care if he would be sore during the ex-skate, he didn’t care because Victor was still touching him, and his lips were pressed against his neck and then kisses soft and sweet were trailed from his neck and onto his shoulders, the fine strands of silver hair brushing against Yuuri’s skin; he scent of his shampoo reached his senses and enveloped him with its now-familiarity.  None of his Unrealistic Fantasies ever told him that Victor’s hair would smell so sweet, like a mixture of sugared candy and fresh flowers, or that the casual clothes he was wearing would smell of his own laundry detergent. 

 

And then Victor stopped the gentle kisses and rested his forehead upon Yuuri’s shoulder, the warmth of his breath upon Yuuri’s bared skin.  His hands had fallen to Yuuri’s hips, and one index finger traced the border of the waistband of his shorts, back and forth between the ball of his hip and and around his waist until it dipped underneath the fabric on another pass and stopped.  “Yuuri...is this…”

 

His voice trailed off and Yuuri wasn’t sure how to answer the incomplete question that hung in the air.  When he didn’t know how to answer with words, there was only one way to communicate. Yuuri lifted the hands that had been by his sides and reached for the hem of Victor’s shirt and lifted it ever so slightly, just enough to feel the faintest brush of Victor’s skin upon the knuckles of his curved fingers.  “Off.”

 

But Victor didn’t move; his head was still resting upon his shoulder and Victor didn’t move.  It was almost as though he wasn’t even drawing breath, and Yuuri suddenly wasn’t sure if he even said the word aloud until Victor raised  his head and pressed another kiss where Yuuri’s neck met his collarbone. “I’m going to step away for a few minutes,” he whispered, “wait for me in the bed, okay?”

 

Oh God.

 

Yuuri felt himself draw in his lower lip under his teeth in a nervous press, but he managed a nod that he hoped Victor could understand since he couldn’t find his voice.

 

“Don’t leave, just wait for me.  Don’t leave...please.”

 

Yuuri nodded again and he felt Victor’s hands sweep over the muscles of his back and around to his chest, slender fingertips tracing over the lines of his body as if to make a physical memory that would carry him through as he stepped away, and Yuuri didn’t want him to go, so why would Victor be concerned about him leaving?  He didn’t understand that, he didn’t know why Victor’s fingers felt as though they were trembling as they brushed his skin, he didn’t want Victor to leave at all, even for a second, because why would he need to do that when Yuuri had wanted him to take his shirt off, and then maybe he wanted for Victor to undress himself the rest of the way and then to return the favor?  Why?

 

Oh.  Idiot.  

 

There were practical things to consider that Yuuri wasn’t considering.  Things like the small bottle he kept discreetly in the inside pocket of his travel kit along with two condoms that were probably expired, given to him by Phichit when they lived together  for the unlikely event his roommate dubbed “for when you finally decide to take a Chad to bed with you and make his life complete.” He’d heard plenty of times from the younger skater that “Safe was Sexy” so yeah.  He didn’t pay it much mind until just this Moment, and now he could feel the prickle of panic start to make itself known on those already excited nerve endings that were under Victor’s fingers and hands. What if the condoms were, in fact, expired?  Do they expire? He thought he remembered something about that, but dear God, what would he do then? Maybe he needed to mention this to Victor, maybe he needed to tell him where he could at least find the bottle of lube? But wasn’t that too embarrassing?  Wasn’t that too presumptive of him? Maybe it wasn’t, though; it was pretty obvious to where this was going, right? He should say something, he knew he should, but the words wouldn’t come out, and now he could feel the tension start to find its way into his shoulders, and of course Victor noticed.

 

“Yuuri...what’s wrong?  We...don’t have to do this…”

 

Shit.

 

“No!” he blurted out, and he immediately knew that wasn’t the right thing to say because Victor’s expression turned to that look of concern he was starting to recognize as the precursor to Victor backing off and giving him space.  He didn’t want  _ space _ .  He wanted  _ Victor. _  Correct it.   _ Now _ .  “I mean, I want to, of course I want to, with you, Victor, with  _ you _ , but I…”

 

His voice trailed off because how could he say what  thoughts were rolling around in his addled brain, that he was worried about condoms and lube and, God, what if he didn’t know what he was doing, and, oh God, what even did Victor like?  He didn’t know! Maybe he should ask him what he wanted, but how does one come right out and ask? It’s not like he could craft a cool segue from “The Champagne was very good,” to “and, oh, by the way, there’s lube in my bag and whose what is going where?”  Shit.

 

“Yuuri,”  Victor began, putting a hand to his cheek, “I want this too, but not if you’re hesitating.  We can wait. We can just share the bed together, and work it out later, if that is what you need.”

 

“I’m not hesitating!” he heard himself retort.  “I...just...don’t know everything I need to know…”

 

Thankfully, Victor’s expression softened and he was pulled into another of his hugs, surrounded by Victor, with one of Victor’s hands carding itself through his hair and the other pressed firmly into the musculature of his back, and the nervousness started to ebb away and it was replaced by a warmth and safety he didn’t expect to feel in this situation at all.  It was at that moment he understood something, that there was trust between them, that he could trust Victor to show him or maybe even to tell him, or maybe even to take care of him, just as he had asked him to do. He felt Victor’s lips lay a gentle kiss upon his earlobe. “Yuuri, you don’t need to know anything. Your body will tell you, I will tell you. There’s nothing you need to do this time except wait for me.  Can you do that? Can you trust that I will take care of this for us?”

 

Trust. It was one of the first things Victor talked to him about when they met on that snowy morning in Hasetsu, that they should build Trust in their relationship.  Yuuri had been so shocked and flustered at the time to actually have  _ the Victor Nikiforov  _ at his home, that he hadn’t been able to do anything but run away from the touches to his chin and to his hands, but he still remembered Victor’s words.   Of course, Victor was an Idiot Coach, but that never meant that Yuuri didn’t trust him when it came to skating. In fact, that Idiot Coach had given him his own trust in return, the confidence he needed to trust his own decisions about his programs, about his elements, even to trust in his execution of the quads that always tripped him up before, and to add the quad flip besides.  And he trusted Victor to lace his skates. And to care for his feet. And Victor noticed the tiniest bit of swelling in his ankle, and he noticed Yuuri’s anxious moments, even if he didn’t always know the right way to deal with them. There was no more proof of trust that Yuuri should need; Victor had given of himself in so many ways both big and small over the months, Victor was always giving of his time, his expertise on the ice, his passion for choreography.

 

He gave away his own career because, somehow, Yuuri had inspired him.  

 

Victor was patiently waiting for him to respond, and, once again, Yuuri could not find the words.  So Yuuri decided to trust in his own body to say what he could not verbalize, and he mirrored Victor’s gesture and raised his hand to the smooth skin of Victor’s cheek and leaned in for a kiss.  Thankfully, the elder man returned it, the gentle slip of tongue soft, and warm, and the sensation of the connection sealed for Yuuri that trust in Victor as more than an Idiot Coach, as more than a friend.  He would have Victor as a Lover, and treasure him for however long Victor would stay.

 

When the kiss lapsed, he was greeted by Victor’s smile and his hands gripped Yuuri’s own.  He squeezed them briefly before he allowed them to fall back to his sides. Yuuri watched as Victor returned to the table and refilled both of their glasses with the remaining Champagne.  “Come here, Yuuri,” he said softly, “we have a little celebration left in the bottle. Let us not have it go to waste, yes?”

 

Yuuri heard himself exhale.  Maybe another glass wasn’t a bad idea.  “Okay.”

 

Yuuri rounded the foot of the bed and moved to take the glass from Victor’s outstretched hand. A  pulse of excitement flitted through the skin as their fingers brushed together, and Yuuri thought Victor lingered just slightly in the touch before he released the delicate flute from his grasp.  Yuuri took a sip of the cold, bubbling liquid and he felt his lips curl into a smile as he watched Victor do the same before he leaned in for a soft, chaste kiss. “Make yourself comfortable, Yuuri,” he murmured against his lips, “I won’t be long.”

 

Yuuri nodded, hoping Victor would truly keep his word because, maybe, he wouldn’t have time to Think. Which would be Great.  Maybe. 


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so humbled by all the love for this silly story. Though it has many flaws, I'm so happy that people are finding something within that they can enjoy. All the kudos, bookmarks, and comments are ADORED. Thank you for reading!!

_ Make yourself comfortable, Yuuri; I won’t be long. _

 

Right.   _ Comfortable. _  Right.  Okay. Of course he could do that.  Yuuri, after all, was an absolute fucking Grand Master at controlling his own discomfort.  He was abso-fucking- _ great _ at that.  

 

Shit.

 

He hadn’t consumed nearly enough Champagne actually to be  _ comfortable.   _ Did Victor forget exactly to whom he was speaking?! 

 

His Idiot Coach was definitely the forgetful sort.  The man even had the Extra enough to admit it with a cute pout and a mischievous sparkle in his eyes, and that slender index finger to his lips as if he was deeply concentrating on pretending to regret forgetting, with the confidence to know that he’d likely be forgiven because: Cute Pouty Lip Adorableness That Will Probably Cause Yuuri a Stroke Someday-

 

But, wait.

 

He didn’t have that capricious air about him in this moment.  No, Victor was actually being serious, actually not being an Idiot Coach at all, and not-

 

Oh.  He was kissing him again while Yuuri’s brain was off doing it’s Thing, and Yuuri let the thought rambling fall away a bit as he accepted another press of those soft lips before Victor excused himself into the ensuite.  His heart started to flutter again, and he studied the twinkling lights of the city outside, seeing his own reflection partially in the window. Without his glasses, it was almost like a fuzzy kaleidoscope of light and a vague motion of traffic down below, the oncoming and departing traffic lines were ribbons of hazy white and red as people in their cars traversed the busy Chinese highways.  The buildings and advertisement billboards glittered, and there were lights in the sky that flickered here and there, dots upon the blackened backdrop of night where planes followed those invisible lines of their flight plans in the sky. Everywhere he looked, the world was happening outside, people were probably getting together, or drifting apart, or meeting for drinks at clubs. Their friends were out there somewhere, probably having a blast, probably getting up to shenans and cutting loose from the pressure of the competition and gearing up for the fun showmanship of the ex-skate, and here was Yuuri, waiting for a different sort of connection, one which he almost didn’t believe was about to happen, one that his self from a year ago would never have believed would ever happen in a million years.

 

He heard the sound of water falling into the bathroom sink, but he tried not to focus on it.  Instead he tried to make himself  _ comfortable _ , and the panorama outside was a comfort somewhat; at least it gave him a minor distraction to the anticipation that was building within his gut and the mini-freakout going on in his brain.

 

It felt like that moment when he would step out on the ice before his turn, where the pull and push of adrenaline and challenge gave him that energy to perform for the crowd.  Even through his anxiety, Yuuri always had the will to win. But, since Victor became his Idiot Coach, the adrenaline and excitement was slowly overcoming the Doubts he took with him upon the ice before a performance.  The change in him wasn’t complete, certainly, but it was a change nonetheless. And now, something else was about to change, but this was not a performance. This was more honest than that, and so Yuuri felt he needed to draw upon whatever courage he held within him to ensure that there would be nothing false or feigned in this.  Victor deserved that. He himself deserved that. He wanted the real Victor, so Yuuri knew that he needed to give the real Yuuri too.

 

Another minute or two passed, and Yuuri slid the curtains shut.  Even if he understood what was about to happen in this room, he didn’t necessarily think it required a Public Viewing, even if it was from eleven stories above the lines of light on the roads below.  He also wondered if he needed to turn off the light by the bed. Should he? Maybe. Maybe he didn’t want Victor to see him while they did...that. Maybe he would make an Embarrassing face, and maybe he didn’t want to show that face to Victor from beneath him.  

 

And maybe part of him knew Victor might be disappointed, but he closed the light.   The room was not pitch dark; he hadn’t closed the drapes that accompanied the semi-sheer curtains that he drew a moment before, so the glittering world outside did find its way into the room, casting a low ambient light upon the space anyway.  He reached for the rod to pull the drapes closed as well, but he stopped himself. No. He’d leave those alone, he decided, because, even if he wasn’t totally confident about knowing Victor would be seeing every intimate part of him, he couldn’t ignore his own desire to see every part of Victor.  He wanted to see him, ached for it, he wanted to Touch all the places from which he always tried to avert his eyes before. He had always thought Victor was beautiful, and, now, he had the permission to appreciate it fully. The ambient light was a good compromise.

 

He took another sip from his glass and looked at the still-made bed, the covers only slightly wrinkled from where he had rested before their meal.  He thought he heard another soft sound from the en suite, but he busied himself with drawing down the bed linens, and then he stared down at the crisp, white sheets;  a contrasting rosy hue was most assuredly rising to his cheeks by now. Hopefully, in the near-darkness, Victor might not be able to tell.

And then, Yuuri had a thought:  What would Victor want to see when he came back into the room?   Would he want to see him as he currently was, standing and staring at the bed like it had all the answers to the mysteries of the goddamn Universe?  Or would Victor prefer to see him in the bed, maybe half covered by the bedclothes, casually sipping Champagne and flashing him a come-hither look? Should he undress completely?

 

Did any of it matter?

 

Another compromise: Yuuri got into the bed, careful not to spill the remainder of his drink, and he propped himself up on the pillows as before.  He kept his shorts on, and he nixed the come-hither look. This wasn’t a Performance. This was supposed to be Real.

 

He was about to raise his glass to drink the final sip within when he heard the soft click of the bathroom door and he saw a sliver of light draw a line upon the floor ahead of it, and then the light was turned off and Victor came back into the small foyer of the room, clad in one of the hotel’s white bathrobes.

 

God.

 

He was Gorgeous.

 

Yuuri almost forgot to breathe when Victor began to walk toward him, Champagne glass in one hand and something wrapped in a towel in the other, the bathrobe only loosely closed so that Victor’s chiseled chest could be seen between the plush terry-cloth folds of fabric.  Yuuri could only watch him, mesmerized, as he gently put what he was carrying on the nightstand and he drained the rest of the Champagne in his glass. Yuuri took the cue and did the same, and neither one of them seemed to want to blink for fear of taking their eyes off of each other for even a fraction of a second.  Victor reached for his empty glass and Yuuri gave it to him, and he rounded the foot of the bed to the other side to put them on the table. The diffused light from the window surrounded him, reflecting off of his hair and making it appear to be almost more gold than silver as he leaned over the small table. Yuuri couldn’t stop staring at Victor in profile; he was so close, that if he moved just slightly in the bed, he could reach out and touch him.  “Yuuri.”

 

His Captivation was interrupted by the sound of his name, and his heart started to beat more firmly within his chest.  “Y-yeah?”

 

“Are you going to invite me to join you?”

 

Oh, Yuuri was so done.  So, so done, and like a toe to a tripwire, his brain imploded until there was only one thought inside:   _ Yes.  Yes, a million times Yes. _

 

“Victor...please come to bed…”

 

Yuuri saw Victor close his eyes, his long lashes casting a tiny shadow upon his cheek in the low light from the window.  He opened them again and rose to his full height, turning to face him. “Okay.”

 

Before Yuuri realized what was happening, Victor tugged on the tie of his bathrobe and with deft hands, he slid the garment off his shoulders, and gravity did the rest as it dropped in a useless heap on the floor.  Yuuri kept looking into Victor’s eyes, but he knew, as if by instinct, that Victor was very, very naked. 

 

“It’s okay to look at all of me, Yuuri.  I want you to.”

 

Yuuri swallowed hard and he could feel blood rushing to his cheeks, and he allowed his gaze to fall to Victor’s chest. It startled him to see it rise and fall in a way more pronounced than he’d ever seen before, as though Victor was struggling with his own ragged heartbeat.  Yuuri wanted to press his ear to that chest and hear it,  _ Feel _ it, and then his gaze swept over the powerful legs that launched thousands of jumps and extended so beautifully in graceful positions on the ice, and then, he looked at all of Victor, and, dear God, every part of him summed together created such an amazing whole, worthy of the disbelief that was collecting in Yuuri’s mind that he would see his idol, his friend, his Idiot Coach, fully naked and half-hard already...it was too much.

 

The apprehension and caution was being overtaken by a want so intense, a need almost primal, to Capture and Consume this example of perfection in male form.  It was awe, really, that Yuuri could have this, that Victor would shed all pretense and bare himself, displaying his own desire so openly, freely, given to him if Yuuri would just take that final step and reach out.

 

Maybe it was the Champagne helping a little, and maybe it was the flicker of light as it danced upon the edges of the silver medal that still lay upon the table next to the drinking vessels, the fruit of his labor with Victor, and the struggles and the pain and the gratification of the podium finish, the personal best of the program meant to seduce the very man who stood before him now, but Yuuri felt his own desire start to reawaken in his loins.

 

So he made that leap of Faith, the faith in himself that he was the only man who could satisfy Victor, and the words tumbled out of his mouth:  “Come here.”

 

He heard a slight gasp from the elder, and before Victor could say anything in response, Yuuri reached out and firmly grasped his forearm, and he pulled with as much force as he could.  He brought Victor down on top of him, the elder’s weight settling upon his chest, his whole body, just as it had upon the ice after the Free, and no sooner had Victor landed on top of him, his mouth and hands were touching, kissing, pressing into his chest, his ribcage, his neck, until their lips finally met and the desperate kisses from before returned.  

 

Yuuri thought he could drown in this, in Victor’s Desperation, his body, the fine silk of his hair; Yuuri could drown in this.  He could feel that heartbeat underneath Victor’s heated skin, and his own seemed to be thundering to break free from the confines of his chest to meet it, and the skin on skin contact was hot, almost feverish, and Yuuri wanted so much  _ more _ .

 

He trailed his hands over the expanse of Victor’s back as they kissed, and he heard a low hum from deep within Victor’s throat; he hadn’t realized it, but his hand had ventured downward and ended up lower on Victor’s body, and, oh God, his ass was so firm and full and felt amazing under his hand, and, if this were all to end in this moment, Yuuri thought he would die a happy man touching that hot body whilst being drowned by kisses and touches to his own.

 

Victor, apparently, had other Ideas, though, because he lowered himself more, and Yuuri could feel how hard he was against his own erection, now straining and leaking from behind the barriers of his underwear and shorts.  He should have been embarrassed, he should not be so wanton and reckless, but he could absolutely not find it within himself to care. He could not stop his body from reacting, and he could not stop his hips from raising to gain more friction, and he shuddered when he heard Victor make some strangled and needful sound that didn’t seem like it had enough syntax to be called actual words at all.

 

_ Oh God _ .  

 

“Yuuri…,”  Victor breathed through their kisses before he moved his mouth toward Yuuri’s ear. “May I?”  came the whispered question along with a gentle tug of the waistband of his shorts.

 

Yuuri knew that there was only One Answer to that question,.  And when Victor raised himself a little to look into his eyes, the blue almost non existent anymore with his widened pupils, Yuuri knew that there was no more doubt at all.  “Yes…”

 

_ A million times, Yes _ .

 

Victor trailed his lips upward and left a soft kiss upon his cheek as he curled his fingers underneath the elastic of the shorts and underwear and pulled.  Yuuri lifted his hip and Victor succeeded in pulling his shorts down past the bone before he deftly crossed his hand over his abdomen to repeat the action on the other side.  Yuuri felt his face grow flush with heat, but the light kisses continued to dot his cheeks as Victor pulled down the clothing slowly, almost reverently, and, dear God, Yuuri thought his heart might explode as Victor created a new path of gentle kisses back down toward his navel where he dipped his tongue inside and,  _ fuck! _ , that had no right to feel as Good as it did.  His shorts were now past his knees and Victor slid them down to his ankles, following the motion with his lips upon his hip, his thigh, his knee, all the way down until he travelled near to the edge of the bed before carefully threading his legs through the cloth and leaving a kiss on the top of each of his feet. 

 

Yuuri felt so exposed on his back in the bed, staring at the ceiling throughout all of Victor’s loving attention; he knew that his arousal was straining, and he was resisting the urge to cover himself by fisting the bedclothes with hands still at his sides.  He felt motion on the mattress, and then warmth once more as Victor covered him with his own nude body, and he couldn’t help but to gasp when their bodies nullified the space between them. “Oh Yuuri…,” Victor breathed between more kisses to his ribcage and chest, a soft hand following the new trail blazed by his mouth as the elder explored the planes of his abs and pectorals.  “You are so beautiful, malysh…”

 

Yuuri didn’t know that word, he didn’t know what that meant; his brain was on meltdown because Victor claimed his lips once more in a tender kiss, the hands caressing places that Yuuri never realized could be erotically charged at all: the crook of his elbows, the ugly stretch marks that marred his midsection, the top of his head; Victor’s hands wandered everywhere within his reach until one of them rested under one of his knees and travelled upward on the inside of his thigh.  Yuuri knew he was gasping in between the kisses, and it should have been so embarrassing, and the recognition that his aching lower half was pressed firmly into Victor’s belly should have been even more Embarrassing. And yet, it wasn’t, because Victor was also hard with his own need; Yuuri could feel it whenever the man shifted to lay hands or kisses upon some heretofore unexplored space on his body, and Victor would hum whenever that intermittent contact was made.

 

And Yuuri wanted to Touch him, to mimic with his own hands an exploration of Victor’s body, to put his arms around him and feel the muscles in his back, his arms, his legs, Everywhere. Victor was kissing him again, gently pushing one of his legs aside until he settled in between them and pressed down, and dear God, Yuuri couldn’t help but to raise his hips once more to seek more contact between their heated bodies.  He felt Victor’s fingertips drag down his right arm, and then lace within his own. A squeeze, then Victor pulled his hand toward his abdomen and rested it there. “Yuuri...touch me…”

 

Oh, this was definitely on Yuuri’s list of Unrealistic Fantasies, hearing his name and the breathy command in that voice, and the flash of desire would never prevent him from doing exactly what Victor had asked of him.  This was his chance to steal Victor completely, to open himself and give of himself; he hadn’t consciously been “saving himself” or anything romantic like that, but now that he was in bed with Victor, there was no other person with whom he wanted to share his body.  He moved his hand down, willing into his hand a confidence he wasn’t sure he fully possessed as he sought Victor out, and, dear  _ gods _ , he was so hot, and hard, and, God, the sound he made was so erotic and desperate when Yuuri encircled him within his grasp.

 

There could be no more Doubt in Yuuri’s mind about what Victor wanted, and he dared to begin working him over with his hand.  Victor reacted instantly, breaking their kiss with a gasp and some unintelligible Russian words under his breath: Yuuri could listen to that all night; he had no idea that Victor would be like this, it wasn’t what he had pictured in those fantasies where Victor confidently laid him down and had his fill of Yuuri’s body.  No, this was far more shocking, the need and desperation Yuuri was feeling from the older man, as if he was dying, parched in a desert and Yuuri was the last drink of water on Earth. He had no idea that Victor would be like this, clingy, comforting, almost  _ begging _ for him with his kisses and touches and sounds.  

 

It Provoked him.  As he twisted the intimate flesh of Victor’s body in his hand, he couldn’t get enough of the lewd sounds that escaped the partner, and he wanted more of it.  He wanted all of Victor, and he wanted him all to himself.

 

But, did he really know what would make Victor feel good?

 

It had been a while since Yuuri had done anything like This; there was the one Chad, or was it Brad?  Tyler? Jason? Anyway, the guy had some skills with his mouth but he was annoying as fuck otherwise, sending way too many texts and always wanting to have Yuuri respond in a reasonable amount of time, which was  _ immediately _ , so...yeah.  The exhaustion of that was not even worth four months of Very Good Occasional Blowjobs.  

 

If Victor kept responding like this, Yuuri didn’t think he would be able to hold back much longer, and he was trying to figure out what to do, and maybe he should tell Victor to start prepping him or something, or,  _ shit! _ , he didn’t really know what to do, he didn’t really want to verbalize it or anything, so maybe he should just let Victor set the pace.  He had barely completed the thought when Victor suddenly removed his hand, gripped both of his shoulders, and hooked one of his long legs around his thigh, reversing their positions in bed in one swift motion.   _ “Bictoru…!” _

 

After ChadBradTylerJason,  there had been Michelle. Or was it Maddie?  She was Blonde, so blonde as to be intentionally fake but it was cute.  However, they both were sort of shy about intimate things, downright  _ Christian _ really, and Yuuri didn’t get that far with her and it was okay.  However, he was never good at keeping in touch, so he had no idea where in the world “M” was now, and she was really sweet and never pushed when he declined dates because of skating.  Maybe he should have paid more attention to her, maybe it would have worked out better if he hadn’t always been so busy with everything, and then thinking she’d be better off with that cute guy in his English class that sort of vaguely reminded him of a 50% less beautiful Victor Nikiforov.  

 

Yuuri braced himself over Victor and opened his eyes to meet Victor’s gaze.  God, he was so gorgeous, his perfect chest rising and falling and the fine silver hair falling away from his forehead; Yuuri couldn’t help himself, and he leaned down to plant a kiss upon his forehead, upon his nose that was always charmingly pink at the tip, his eyelids fringed by the delicate pale lashes as they fluttered closed toward the attention, his flushed cheeks and kiss-swollen lips.  He couldn’t get enough of looking upon him, kissing him in a veritable shower of Feelings he could not easily put into words. “That’s it, malysh...you know you have had me all this time, don’t you?” Victor whispered into his hair when Yuuri dared to kiss the graceful neck at the place below Victor’s perfect jawline and under his earlobe.

 

“Have I?”  Yuuri breathed back, unthinking, as he nibbled on Victor’s collarbone, eliciting more delicious sounds that seemed to begin with a rumble in Victor’s chest and escape in a barely formed “ahhh” from his mouth.  Did he just find a good spot? He wanted to check, to confirm the theory, so he returned to nibbling lightly upon that sweet spot at Victor’s jawline, and, gods, Victor responded by arching his back nearly off the bed.  Yuuri involuntarily pushed him back down with a firm hand upon his hip, pressing him back into the bed almost roughly to hold him in place which brought forth the sexiest sounding “Da….!” he had ever heard in answer to his question.

 

Oh, this was Good.  Oh, it was too good, maybe it was even too good to be true.  Did Victor even  _ understand _ what he was doing, how much he was provoking him and making him so goddamn  _ Nervous _ at the same time?  

 

And then there had been  _ Victoria _ , from his first senior year, when he had just made the realization that he would need to become a dreaded Fifth Year Senior because he had to reduce his course load in order to have enough time to train...

 

Gods, he remembered  _ her _ name of course.  Victoria, who liked to drink and play quarters and got just as slutty on the dance floor when drunk as he did,  until they both passed out wherever they were and couldn’t quite figure out if they’d actually fooled around beyond Yuuri having smudgy pale pink lipstick on his neck and chin every once in a while the next morning. She preferred to be called “Vicki”, and that he also remembered:  because she always reminded him, because he always called her Victoria anyway, because he thought Vicki sounded stupid and childish. But probably he did it more because “Vicki” made a blasphemy of the name of one  _ Victor Nikiforov _ , whose name shall not be blasphemed because he is a god among skaters and why the fuck didn’t Victoria understand how  _ blessed _ she was to share a name with a  _ god _ ?! 

 

She was fun and cute even though she was as tall as he was, and she was a good dancer too.  If he didn’t know better, he would have thought she was from Kyushu also because, damn, that girl could  _ drink,  _ and when he was struggling with jumps, homework from a stupid chemistry class he knew he would never use in real life, and his mood hit the Fuck This Shit stage, she was the ideal companion to help him forget his troubles for a while.   Yuuri couldn’t seem to drink with her without them both forgetting everything, including that one time when he had to sheepishly call Celestino because he found himself in a town called Ypsilanti, Michigan when he and Victoria woke up the next...afternoon on a random couch, and he didn’t know where exactly Ypsilanti was in relation to the Detroit Skating Club.  Apparently, it was next to Ann Arbor, where he and Victoria had started their shenanigans at some house party thrown by member of the University of Michigan hockey team. It ended at some diner in “Ypsi” because the left winger proclaimed it was better, and he had a sober ride to take them all there to prove that Ypsi Shit Diners were better than uppity Ann Arbor “pretend” Shit Diners, and Drunk Yuuri and Smashed Vicki thought it was a Fantastic Idea at the time to eat French fries at 1 AM.

 

“Yuuri…”

 

He hadn’t stopped kissing Victor, even as he fretted about what he could do to make this work, to make Victor feel good, to do what he wanted, to recall the things that gave his previous partners pleasure, to wonder if he was really good enough to be naked in bed with Victor at all, and why Victor wanted him, and why he was held within an embrace with one of Victor’s hands securely in his hair and the other just as securely on his  _ ass _ -

 

“Yuu~~~ri…,” Victor breathed into his mouth, the mint of his toothpaste and a touch of the dry sweetness  from the Champagne on his breath and Yuuri still had no Words, and still just ran his hands and lips over Victor’s abs: truly Victor’s abs were really a work of fucking  _ Art _ , and he didn’t realize he had been tracing them with his tongue until Victor suddenly clenched and that tight six-pack became suddenly tighter.  Yuuri couldn’t help but to bite into that muscular definition even as he started to tremble and worry that Victor wouldn’t like it, and it was taking all of his effort to remain braced above him for fear that if he happened to lower his body any further, that Victor might think of him to be some too-eager virgin with his dick hard and leaking already and-

 

“Get down here,”  Victor whispered, and before Yuuri could figure out what the man meant, the hand on his ass was joined by Victor’s other hand in a firm grip of him that sent heat immediately to the other cheeks of his face, and one of those long legs suddenly threaded between his own and bent.  Yuuri was confronted by a very strong thigh in a grinding press upon his too-eager, too-hard...  _ oh dear God! _ , he almost came right then and there, and wouldn’t that have been just too Embarrassing, and-

 

“Kiss me, Yuuri…”

 

Of course he would.  Of course. He could do that.  Again, the kiss was hungry and desperate, and the pressure on his groin was almost too much, being in bed with Victor was almost too much, and, it was hot in the non-existent space between them, and what was Victor expecting?  Shouldn’t he flip them over again? Isn’t that what Victor should be doing? Shit. Yuuri didn’t know. So he kept kissing and exploring Victor’s body: there was no end to the places he could discover, and Victor was so damn vocal, making sounds that were words, and a lot that were not; every response was making it very difficult to keep any sort of Composure.  What was he supposed to do now, now that Victor had pulled him down by his ass and he could feel Victor’s body pressing into him: if only he had taken Phichit’s advice to actually sleep with one of the Chads, then maybe he’d be better at this. Maybe he was disappointing Victor? Maybe Victor thought he was taking too long to get down to business? Maybe, oh gods, did Victor expect him to  _ talk _ when they were in bed like this?!  Was that what he was waiting for? Oh shit.  That would be so Not Good: Yuuri wasn’t drunk, not even close to it, but he feared that if he opened his mouth to form words around the kisses that wrapped both of their tongues together, that the Filth he would spew out would surely offend his partner, and he’d probably end up getting banished from the room, and, oh, was it too late to get another room?  What if he really messed this up because he was so fucking  _ clueless _ ?  How was he supposed to satisfy Victor like this?  Surely Victor would be shocked to hear all of the Impure Thoughts Yuuri had been storing up for 12 years verbalized.  No. Just...No. Victor deserved better than that! He could never say those naughty things aloud to this creature who had so obviously descended directly from  _ Heaven. _

 

So no talking.  Victor could keep talking all he wanted, but Yuuri would not dare to wax poetic over Victor’s perfect pink nipples, and the rock-hard core, and his amazingly soft lips and his silky hair and delicate eyelashes, and, oh shit!, did he really just groan out loud right now, and did Victor just make it  _ worse _ by grabbing him even more tightly and grinding his perfectly sized perfect thing into his stomach where Yuuri hoped he did not still have that slightly softer of a middle than he probably should-

 

And there had been that One Time with that lacrosse goalie that Phichit had introduced him to.  He was really hot. He wasn’t hot like Victor Hot, but in a way that was Not Victor Level of hot, but still hot.  By rights, it should have been a good date. It should have ended with some kissing at the least, and maybe Yuuri might have been more than okay if David the Lacrosse Goalie decided it was too warm to keep his shirt on, and maybe the date was sort of Phichit’s way to help him out, Yuuri having Absolute Knowledge that his roommate definitely caught him staring when they all happened to be doing weight training at the campus gym at the same time.  Phichit marched right over to where David the Lacrosse Goalie was bench pressing a ridiculous amount of weight and started chatting him up and Yuuri took that as his cue to get the hell out of there, because, clearly, Phichit must have been into him too, and of  _ course _ , Phichit had no problems making friends  _ anywhere _ , in real life or online, and,  _ clearly _ , Phichit was way more fun to be around anyway.  He almost panicked when his roommate caught up with him as he was leaving the gym to say that David asked for Yuuri’s phone number, and, of  _ course _ , like any Good Friend, Phichit gave it to him without permission. Before Yuuri knew it, he had been set up on this date that should have been fine, even if he sort of thought that the guy was crazy for wanting a date with him, and maybe he’d prefer to go out with Phichit after all.

 

It should have been a fine date.  Maybe there might have been some benefits afterward, and maybe that would have been fine too.  Yuuri was not immune to David’s abs after all, and Phichit definitely knew that much when he had caught Yuuri admiring them at the gym.  

 

But the date wasn’t Fine.  

 

All Yuuri remembered was that it was dollar pitcher night at the bar, and he drank way too much right off the bat because he was already nervous about The Date, and the evening devolved from pleasant, semi-awkward conversation into Yuuri remembering that he wanted to murder his roommate for setting up The Date on the night of the European Championships.   

 

David and his Nice Abs didn’t understand the tragedy of not watching Victor Nikiforov skate live via stream in favor of going on The Date with someone like him.  And because Drunk Yuuri was nearly in full force, Yuuri certainly hadn’t intended to really say that out loud, but David didn’t even know who Victor Nikiforov was, which was Unacceptable, and so almost-Drunk Yuuri felt the need to educate him over their cheap beer and another plate of ill-advised French fries.  Maybe he shouldn’t have done that. Maybe David was too nice when he walked him back to his apartment early, early enough for almost-Drunk Yuuri to say a goodbye at his door with a quick peck on David’s lips and a thank you for having nice abs and an apology for cutting The Date short before he dashed inside and made a beeline for his laptop, just in time to see Victor Nikiforov take the ice for his Free Skate.    

 

And, as usual, it had been a stunning performance.  The Living Legend’s costume clung to him like a second skin, and loosely hung chains of Swarovski crystals flowed behind him from where their ends were sewn in at his waist: Yuuri adored that costume, the dark fabric setting off Victor’s pale skin and hair, a study in color contrast if ever there was one.  

 

Toward the memory,  Yuuri moved his arms down Victor’s body in bed to the place at his sides from where those delicate strands of crystals had emanated, eliciting another non-verbal hum of appreciation from the partner followed by,  _ dear God _ , the sensation of Victor’s lips on his own neck, firm, with  _ tongue _ and  _ teeth,  _ and-

 

After The Date with David, Yuuri had only been basking in Victor’s performance for a short while when Phichit barged into his room unannounced, making literal use of the term Throw Pillow,  throwing a hamster-shaped pillow squarely at his head as Victor kissed yet another gold medal on the podium inside the screen of his laptop. 

 

“What was that for?!” Yuuri remembered shouting crossly because he was still half-drunk, and to which Phichit replied:  “You know, I liked David. He liked you. We could have had a whole bunch of Like floating around and what do you do instead?  You give up a perfectly good hottie who has the special bonus of having a good personality and who thinks, rightly, that you are  _ hot as fuck _ , to watch a program you’ve watched plenty of times this season already!”

 

“I wouldn’t have had to do that if  _ someone _ hadn’t  _ purposely _ planned the whole thing to take place at the same time as the Men’s Free Skate!”  he remembered defending, but Phichit stood his ground. 

 

“You know, Yuuri, it’s fine to be pining and lusting after Victor from afar-”

 

“I’m not  _ lusting _ after him!”  he lied. He didn’t even bother to correct Phichit about the pining.  He didn’t need to do that because at least pining was relatively Innocent; it wasn’t like he was stalking the guy.  Not really. Not unless being a mostly-lurker-and-occasional-contributor-when-someone-had-the-nerve-to-diss-Victor on four fan sites could be classified as stalking.  Okay. Fine. He fanstalked him. There. He internally admitted it, and Phichit could Bite Him. Whatever.

 

“As. I. Was. _ Saying,”  _ Phichit shot back with an exasperated sigh,  “It’s fine to keep your Massive Crush on Victor, but if you’re not going to pick up your damn phone and DM him on Instagram or Twitter and actually get to  _ know _ him, then you might as well find someone else!  I can’t  _ believe _ you turned David into a  _ Chad _ !  This has to stop, Yuuri. As your Relationship Advisor, I forbid you from jerking off to your Victor posters for one fucking week and you need to give David another chance because he still wants to go out with you again even though you acted like an  _ Asshole _ !”

 

_ “Phichit-kun!!”   _ Oh, he had been called out hardcore on that.  Shit. Maybe he was kind of an asshole sometimes.  It wasn’t intentional, but, yeah. Fine. He was an Asshole, pining, fanstalking, lusting, anxiety-ridden Hot  _ Mess _ .  Fine.

 

Another sigh.  “Just send Victor a message,”  Phichit said more quietly, making himself at home by sitting upon the foot of Yuuri’s bed.    “It’s not like it would be weird. You’re elite in Japan and he’s the top skater in Russia. Get to know him.”

 

“There’s no way I could do that.  Not until I can meet him at the same level in competition.”

 

Phichit tsked.  “What if that happens, and, Yuuri, it  _ will  _ happen.  And then you meet him, thinking he’s going to be super friendly like he is to the fans.  What if he’s not really like that? Or, worse, what if you find out that he really is the international playboy with a million broken hearts left in his wake like the tabloids say?  What would that be like? A lot of fans and even people in the know say that he and Giacometti are fucking on the regular.”

 

“I know that.”  Because, Thank You, TMZ.  Bitch.

 

“But you don’t know Victor at all, and I don’t want to see you get hurt if you meet him and he’s not all you’ve made him out to be.  And you won’t know unless you reach out to him; you should just go for it. Do you want me to break the ice? I’d love to meet him too, to be honest.  I could-”

 

“ _ No _ ,”  Yuuri had told him firmly before taking a deep breath.  “I’ll apologize to David. I’m sorry. I know what you were trying to do.  Sorry I’m like this.”

 

Maybe he should say the same thing in this very moment to Victor.  He was sorry he was Like This, freaking out as his erotic senses were being tested to their absolute limits by Victor’s  hands, and mouth, and thigh, and,  _ gods! _ , why couldn’t he just break the thought-cycle and ask Victor what he wanted?  Why couldn’t he reach out even  _ now _ , when they were sharing spit and kissing and nipping all over each other, hands wandering, hot to the touch and electrifying in their mission to drive themselves over that last and final edge?  Why couldn’t he let out all those  _ Things _ he wanted to do now that he had Victor in his bed and under him and making all those  _ Noises _ -

 

“Yuuri.  I can  _ hear _ you thinking,”  “Victor whispered softly into his ear, “and I can feel you’re tensing up.”

 

“Victor..I…”

 

Victor pulled him by gentle hands to his cheeks to look at him, and, yes, he looked like a man who was heading for the edge of bliss, but Yuuri could see it.  He could see the concern. Shit.  _ Shit!  _  Try again.

 

“Victor, I-”

 

“Do you not…,”  Victor interrupted quietly, “...like this?”

 

Wait...what?


	6. ChapterSix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and for your patience with this update. On the home stretch now, and I am so very grateful for all the love and support for this story. Thank you so much for being so kind!
> 
> So, I give you chapters Six and Seven. Please, Enjoy!  
> ~C

  
  


_ Do you not...like this? _

 

Yes.  Yuuri Liked This.  There was so much damn Like for This that it should have been Obvious, and he should be Captain.

 

And yet, those damn stupid Words were just Gone, and Yuuri couldn’t form a response to that.  Hell, he couldn’t think of what to say in Japanese, nevermind its English equivalent, because he simply didn’t know what words to say that wouldn’t come out as though spoken by a total Idiot.  Oh, he was definitely heading into Idiot Territory, but he was freaking out and so, so,  _ so _ turned on, and-

 

“No!” Yuuri blurted out, and oh  _ shit!, _ Victor’s hands left his face as though burned, as though a mistake had been made, and the man began twisting underneath him, trying to get away.  Fix it! Damn it! What the actual fuck was his brain  _ doing?! _

 

“I mean  _ YES! _ ” he almost shouted against the quiet of the room, bracing his own hands upon Victor, one firmly pushing him down at the hip, the other firmly pressing his shoulder back into the bed. Victor met his gaze once more, wide-eyed,  as his hands grabbed fistfuls of fabric from the bedsheets looking for something else to hold, as if he was wanting to sew himself up tightly underneath the bedclothes to reset everything and forget where they were, forget that he had bared himself, as if some stitch of cloth could create a larger distance between them than their current position would allow: of course Victor was Confused,  _ of course  _ he couldn’t figure out what the hell Yuuri meant, Yeses and Noes spewing off like an out of control bobbin unraveling its thread on a broken sewing machine,  ruining the seam that they had been joining with each Press of lips and Swipe of tongue and Touch of hand and-

 

“Which is it?”  Victor whispered, the caution still evident in his eyes.

 

“Of course it’s ‘yes’,” Yuuri gasped out in a whisper tinged with the biting exasperation he felt toward his own Brain Malfunction and Words Malfunction; his eyes automatically averted themselves  from Victor’s gaze until he felt motion on the bed and one of Victor’s hands returned to his face.

 

“Then what’s wrong, malysh?  Help me understand…”

 

Yuuri could hear himself inhale and exhale, the adrenaline was flowing between the precarious arousal burning in his gut and the cacophony of misfiring synapses in his brain.  What a Hot Fucking Mess.

 

Think.  Think, and think  _ fast _ , preferably in English, and don’t be a Malfunctioning Idiot,  _ Idiot _ , please, and thank you, and so help him  _ God, _ he Needed to get this Right.

 

“I...don’t know what you want.”   

 

There.  He said it.  He said it, but he still couldn’t look at Victor’s face. He focused his attention on his own breathing, and Victor’s, and the feeling of arms being wrapped around him, guiding his body down until his skin met with Victor’s skin.  He hadn’t realized it, but he had been running one of his hands through Victor’s hair, as if his body knew what Victor wanted even if his brain was being useless and just plain fucking  _ dumb _ .  

 

“You’ve already seduced me,”  Victor whispered, “so keep going, okay?”

 

Yuuri had his eyes closed but he managed a nod, and he could feel the contours of Victor’s face as their cheeks brushed;  he found the man’s lips again, warm, soft, and pliable underneath his own. He felt his own body respond as Victor gently pushed his tongue through, and all of the memories his brain had provided for him of his prior experiences seemed to melt away with every caress from Victor, and he realized that the only experience that mattered was This:  he, and Victor, together. 

 

He had wanted this for so long.

 

The others in his life were fine.  The experiences he had with them were fine.  But, no matter who it was, no matter who lived in memory, no matter how much or, frankly, how little he tried to see if it could be something with someone, in Japan or in Detroit, guy or girl,  it had always been Victor Nikiforov.

 

The Untouchable, Beautiful, Godlike Victor Nikiforov.

 

However, now that he was here, in this room in China, having a freakout because he was naked in an actual bed with an  _ actually naked  _ Victor Nikiforov, Yuuri had a sudden Moment of Clarity: he wasn’t in bed with the Victor Nikiforov of his Unrealistic Fantasies at all.

All Yuuri wanted was to satisfy Victor.  He was the only one who could satisfy Victor.  Wasn’t that his own mental mantra every time he took the ice to skate Eros?  He didn’t remember thinking he wanted to satisfy Victor Nikiforov at all; it had only ever been “Victor” in his his private soliloquies on the ice as he skated his program.

 

Just Victor.  

 

It was Just Victor, his Idiot Coach, who always seemed to give more than Yuuri ever gave in return.  He broke the kiss and forced his eyes open; Victor’s eyes were smiling back toward him in the low, almost-non-existent light, and, before Yuuri realized it, words escaped from his mouth in a whisper:  “Tell me what you want, Victor…”

 

Victor said nothing, but ran his hands all over his back and down to his ass where he squeezed before giving his thighs the same treatment, and Yuuri focused on the touch while he listened to Victor’s response:  “Give me your hand.”

 

Yuuri found Victor’s hand easily, and Victor entwined his fingers within once more before he changed his grip and guided him to his body.  Yuuri thought he knew where this was going but Victor shifted a little, and, before he realized what was happening, Victor was kissing him again hungrily while guiding his hand down further, folding all but two of his fingers and then he pressed forward, and- 

 

Oh.   _ Oh. _

 

Yuuri stopped the kiss and stared into Victor’s eyes;  his expression probably screamed the Disbelief he was feeling because, holy hell, his fingers were being coaxed inside by Victor’s hand, and, what?! How?  Did he actually-? Oh dear God: Victor’s body was already hot and slick and-

 

“Bictoru…!” he gasped, “did you...I mean...are you-”

 

“I told you to trust me to take care of things for us,” he said quietly, and Yuuri could only nod in reply.  “Then I think you know what to do from here, yes?”

 

Yuuri’s brain was still trying to register the shock of having his fingers pressed against Victor’s entrance and discovering that the elder must have prepared himself before coming to bed.  This was not what Yuuri was Expecting, but, now that Yuuri knew what Victor wanted, his body responded faster than did his brain, and he felt both utterly disarmed, surprised, and provoked at the same time: his long-standing personal theory that Victor was the sexiest man on The Planet was being proven right before his very eyes.  He leaned down and found that spot on the elder’s neck again; he pulled the skin taut with suction, grazing it with his teeth as he pushed inside Victor’s body with his fingers in a steady rhythm.

 

Victor’s hips jerked slightly, but Yuuri didn’t think it was in objection.  His brain was catching up finally, and his hearing was overloaded by more of Victor’s wordless sounds with every press of lips upon his body and with every foray his fingers made inside of him.  Yuuri wondered what sound Victor would make if he tried something else; he dragged his fingers very slowly until only the tip of his index finger remained at the rim, and Victor nearly choked on his breath toward the loss of the penetration, desperately stuttering out something in Russian that may or may not have been followed by Yuuri’s name.  Yuuri pushed his fingers in once more, and the gasp turned into a whining sound that went straight to his groin. How could this man be so goddamn hot, his literal wet fucking dream come to life, and even better than any of his literal wet dreams because Victor was so much more than the Victor Nikiforov of his fantasies ever could hope to be?

 

But Yuuri’s fantasies did have worth.  There was a goddamn treasure trove of Material there, and, for some reason, the embarrassment he should be feeling was suddenly as irrelevant as was the bathrobe Victor had let fall to the floor in a heap beside the bed and Yuuri’s own underwear that landed God-only-knew where.  His body and mind were more in synch now; Victor was so responsive, so much more than he ever thought he would be, and Yuuri wanted more of those desperate and needy sounds that were far more intoxicating than the expensive Champagne had been. He hadn’t planned to speak; he hadn’t planned it, but Victor’s name escaped from his mouth and the silver-fringed eyelids fluttered open toward the sound in a look that was hazy and unfocused, yet still dark and deep with desire.  He pushed his fingers in more deeply, searching. He knew he was good with his hands; he’d been told that before, and maybe he could-

 

“Haaa…Yuu--blyad...haaah…?!”

 

The eyes widened; he definitely had his partner’s attention now, and having Victor’s eyes trained on his every move was Exhilarating.  Now that he had that, Yuuri felt that surge of confidence build, a feeling that was still somewhat new and something not much more than an acquaintance yet, but it was familiar enough to recognize.  

 

Victor was watching him, rapt, just as he would during his program.   Yuuri knew he had this chance to surprise him again, so he took the risk and dipped into those many fantasies and desires kept locked away. He lowered his lips down to Victor’s chest, circling the pretty pink nub of his pectoral within his mouth and flicking it with his tongue.  Immediately, a hand fisted his hair and the other hand anchored itself more firmly on his side, the accompaniment to another word he had heard more than a few times escape Yuri Plisetsky’s mouth and for which Victor had scolded the teenager in Russian for saying it. Yuuri didn’t know the meaning, and he knew it wasn’t a pretty word, but coming from Victor it was so damn  _ alluring.   _ Even in all of his press, and even in the tabloids, Victor was not known to use much profanity, so hearing something Yuuri just  _ knew _ was filthy escape Victor’s mouth had an immediate effect of magnetism, that what he did could pull something that raw and honest to come out; he wanted more of the unrestrained sounds and naughty words, and he wanted them only for him.

 

And that was not the only thing Yuuri Wanted.

 

“Victor,” he breathed as he kissed his way back up toward Victor’s mouth, “I don’t think I can hold back much longer…”

 

He felt Victor smile against the kiss.  “Hmm...you wouldn’t be trying to go easy on me would you?”

 

Oh dear God.

 

“Vic-”

 

“Because,” he interrupted between more presses of their lips, “that’s not how you should show your love.”

 

Oh.   _ Love?! _

 

Gods, Victor was such an  _ Idiot! _  Didn’t he realize that  _ one word _ was like a hand-grenade without a pin to someone like him?  How could Victor say that so freely? And, he couldn’t realistically think Yuuri would be able to come right out and say that aloud in reply, when he struggled just to deal with the truth of it within the confines of his own stupid head. Surely, Victor didn’t need to be in love with him to do what they were doing; they were both men.  Surely they could do this without the whole Love Thing to mess with Yuuri’s delicate, read: Fucked Up, sensibilities. Certainly, Victor didn’t actually love him. That was way too Unrealistic of a Fantasy to even make the List, even if Yuuri admitted to himself that he liked the Idea way too much more than he should.

 

However, Victor had said something like that to him before, hadn’t he?  He had: on that cloudy day at the beach, when Yuuri told him how he physically pushed himself out of a hug because he thought that girl was asserting herself too much, not respecting his feelings, how much he hated how it made him feel weak, and misunderstood, and invaded, and-

 

Even after the “wow…” Victor had said in response to the story, the man had listened to him, had tried to understand.  He told him he wasn’t weak, and that no one in his life thought he was. Maybe that was true, maybe it wasn’t, but maybe Yuuri could believe Victor and believe in him.  He never wanted Victor as a father figure, or as some surrogate elder brother. Even though he protested in a knee-jerk reaction with five “No”s in rapid succession when Victor suggested he could be his boyfriend-

 

But “Love”?  Yuuri had invested a not-insignificant amount of time in avoiding that particular L Word and all of its implications.  His sense of self-preservation which displayed itself in those knee-jerk reactions should tell his Idiot Coach that it would be wiser not to drop that bomb on him.  

 

And yet, Victor said it anyway.  

 

And, thanks to his own Press Conference Rambling Disease, Yuuri had even said it too.  Sort of. Kind of. In Japanese that,  _ hopefully _ , no one bothered to translate for Victor because How Will He Ever Manage To Live That Down if Victor actually  _ Knew _ , and-

 

 

Maybe, oh, this was Crazy, and probably Ridiculous, and probably Stupid, and incredibly Unlikely, but maybe, at least for now, Victor…

 

Loved Him.

 

And if Victor loved him in this moment, what should Yuuri do about that?  For now, as his stupid brain worked through the Disbelief, his body managed to take up some of the slack; he resumed kissing the soft skin of Victor’s neck and chest, his chin, his forehead, his nose, and he kept up the motion with his fingers because he liked the little gasps that spilled from Victor’s soft lips each time he brushed a sensitive spot deep inside.

 

Yuuri had loved Victor for so long; he could almost not remember a time when  he hadn’t loved Victor in some way. So how could he show it aside from skating his heart and soul out on the ice until his feet were battered and bruised and until every muscle burned?  He didn’t go easy on the ice; Victor expected that, even as his Idiot Coach. So, did that mean “Just Victor” expected that in this situation too? Could he get away with taking a slightly firmer hand and give in to his own lustful desires?  Could it really be Like This? 

 

He pulled back his fingers, and then he pushed in strong, and, oh  _ fuck! _ , the Sound Victor made: a groan so drawn out and then followed by oxygen-seeking rasps that pushed Yuuri’s restraint to its very last bastion, nearly eliminating that Insecurity that was still clattering around in his head until…

 

Shit.

 

He wasn’t  _ hurting _ Victor, was he?  It didn’t seem like it, in fact, it seemed like Victor was enjoying it, but, oh dear All the Gods Yuuri Knew,  he wasn’t  _ sure! _  Was he being too reckless?  Were too many of those Things He Wanted to Do escaping through his body without his brain’s permission?

 

Yuuri wasn’t very good at reading Signals, things unspoken and left to ambiguous interpretation.  He wasn’t good at that. According to Phichit, he was a Fucking Expert at misreading things, and at being oblivious and an accidental asshole, and at breaking people’s hearts and turning them into Chads.  And, on some level, he knew that he was Doing That, even if his brain didn’t quite push it to the levels of belief and acknowledgement. He wasn’t good at subtlety when it concerned interpreting other people’s possible Feelings toward him; he needed the black and white, and maybe he shouldn’t be like that, but it wasn’t like he could control all of his shortcomings.  He hadn’t wanted  _ anyone _ to see those, and it was easier to ignore, to disbelieve, to separate himself from people who made overt attempts to become closer to him, to lose phone numbers accidentally-on-purpose because it was too stressful to allow someone to be truly intimate with him, knowing that he would likely cause them trouble and that those people would probably dislike him once they saw the Reality that he was anxious, and selfish, and…

 

Already in Love with Someone Else.

 

That word again.  It made him tremble, and Yuuri wondered if he was well and truly going into a panic and not just turning over more useless thoughts in his brain until he realized Something.

 

“Yuuri…?”

 

It was Easier to ignore.  It was Easier not to believe.  It was Easier to keep people at arm’s length, it was Easier to push them away. It was Easier to keep his shortcomings to himself.

 

It was Easier to keep Desires deeply pushed down and to keep them between himself and his 37 Official Victor Nikiforov Posters and those too-sexy adverts for high-end products clipped from magazines and all their other content he couldn’t give a rat’s ass about.

  
And Victor wanted none of that.  For some reason, he didn’t want it to be Easier.

 

_ Because that’s not how you should show your love. _

 

And Yuuri knew why he was trembling now.  He knew. 

 

He was...happy.  And so in Love with this Beautiful Man.

 

“I...won’t go easy on you, if that’s what you want.”

 

“Oh, Yuuri…”

 

“But...A-are you sure…?  What if I hurt-” 

 

The interruption was another needy kiss in response both to the question and to Yuuri pressing deeply inside once more, finding exactly the right spot again that sent shudders through the body beneath him.  When Victor pulled back, their breaths mingling, Victor blindly reached for the nightstand and grasped the items he had brought with him from the ensuite down to the bed. “Work me open a little more…but don’t make me wait too long...”

 

Oh, fuck.  How in the hell was he supposed to keep his composure when Victor said something like  _ that  _ right to his face?!   Yuuri had just discovered the Limit of his Restraint, and his worry seemed to evaporate like fog against the heated sun of Victor’s words.  

 

Yuuri  _ wanted _ Victor.  In any way possible.  In Every Way possible, and his own insecurities could just  _ go screw  _ and let him have This.  

  
  


_ Stealing Victor Nikiforov from the world is the gravest of sins. _

 

A Thief.  

 

A Sinner.

 

A Lover.

 

He would be all of that and more, if it meant that he could satisfy Victor.

 

Before he knew it, he was looking into those captivating blue eyes, straight through as if to find Victor’s very soul, and he heard his own voice laced with whispered heat:  “I won’t keep you waiting anymore.”

 

The eyes blinked, they practically  _ sparkled _ , visible even in the low ambient light of the room.   Victor’s breath caught in his throat, his lips parting in surprise until Yuuri claimed them passionately with his own as he removed his fingers to rifle around for the small bottle that spilled onto the bed.  Victor made a keening sound through the kiss toward the absence that immediately topped the charts of the most Erotic sounds Yuuri had ever heard in his goddamn life, and he accepted the minor miracle that allowed him to locate  the towel and then the bottle in one more hurried sweep of his hand. He still had Victor’s thigh pressing into him, and their bodies were nearly flush together, sharing heat and a light sheen of sweat, but it Wasn’t Enough. Yuuri wanted not only to touch, not only to kiss; he wanted to  _ see _ the man underneath him, wanted to watch his every reaction, wanted to be guided by the tells of Victor’s body that would lead him to do the right things to make the man feel the pleasure of his touch…

 

“I...want…” he breathed between nips to Victor’s bottom lip and kissing the man for all he was worth, “to steal you…”

 

He broke the kiss, immediately shocked with his own boldness, saying his Thoughts aloud, but Victor’s eyes fluttered open once more and the expression within was something right out of Yuuri’s most intimate and lustful thoughts, glazed over and half-lidded, the pretty pale lashes fanning out and curtaining that gaze of pure want directed toward him.  

 

“Do it, then.  Steal me.”

 

Oh fuck.  Only he could satisfy this precious creature.  Only he would treasure him, take him apart and put him back together again with his own body’s music, and create a Story that was uniquely theirs.  He moved to raise himself enough to sit back upon his knees, Victor’s thigh still slotted in between, but the partner lowered his leg so Yuuri could drag his hand down the whole expanse of Victor’s heaving chest as he settled, their eyes locked even as Yuuri flicked open the cap of of the bottle with his other hand to coat his fingers with the silky liquid and to quickly warm the cool gel by rubbing his fingers together.  He flattened his other palm on Victor’s belly, the quivering of those tight muscles under his ridiculously soft skin betraying all of Victor’s own excitement, and, still further down he travelled, until the destination caused the elder to break the stare when his eyes rolled back under Yuuri’s tight grasp of his length. The subtle dip of his index finger into the slit elicited more scattered breaths of not-quite-words to escape his precious, beautiful, Stolen Victor. “Taisetsuna mono...utsukushii…”

 

“Hmm...haa...are you p-praising me malysh…?”  

 

Oh shit; his brain-to-mouth filter really was totally gone.  He didn’t intend to say even  _ more _ Thoughts aloud!  “Um…”

 

“What you...ah!... said...was it a good thing, Yuuri?”

 

“Y-yeah…”

 

Victor leaned up, bent at the waist and almost sitting, their chests facing each other.   He guided the hand on his arousal to a slower pace before stopping the motion entirely and leading it down to the mattress. He laced their fingers together so their arms could brace their combined weight as they faced each other.   “You’re a little too good at that, lapochka,” he breathed, “I won’t last like that and I want to hear you say that again...” He threaded his other arm around to Yuuri’s back, pushing slightly with his thigh again as he lay his head upon his sternum.  If Yuuri’s heart were to beat any faster, he thought it might burst. 

 

“Utsukushii…”

 

He heard Victor hum and felt a kiss upon his chest.  “I’m stolen, Yuuri. Stolen by you.”

 

No more words seemed to be coming to Yuuri now as he sat with his knees on either side of Victor’s thigh.  Instead, with his fingers prepared, he slid his hand down through the small space between them and pushed. Hard.  

 

“Mine.”

 

And, dear God, the desperate moan he received, in combination with Victor’s heated gasps of breath on his neck as the elder held onto him as if for dear life...it  told Yuuri everything he needed to know: Yuuri would  _ not _ go easy on Victor, even as he Stole and Treasured him. 

 

How many times had Victor hugged him, just when he needed to feel the warmth of his embrace?  It had become too many to count. Hugs were routine, as were the touches and brushes of hand that Yuuri now realized were not always unintentional before the Kiss after the Free.  Victor clung to him in the bed as Yuuri worked him open with his hands, alternating the pressure from gentle caresses and rubbing of the tender insides to firm presses that mimicked what Yuuri wanted to do with a different part of his body.  With each change of pace and pressure, Victor held him, his breath upon his chest with the gentle creation of space and then he would throw his head back with a gasp for heated air when Yuuri took a firmer hand. 

 

_ Utsukushii…. _

 

This man was utterly Gorgeous; their position in bed so similar to those many hugs given and received, but so much more intimate now, naked and joined with limbs entwined and fingers inside, and lips caressing skin and the other’s lips, and the intermittent friction of their lower halves brushing as they embraced.  Yuuri had thought Victor’s hugs were all about reassurance for him, protection of him from the negative direction toward which his brain loved to steer, his thoughts of being unworthy of Victor’s time, of being Never Enough, of wondering if he even deserved to be a certified skater for the JSF at all. But, in this most intimate of moments, Yuuri was realizing Something, something he maybe should have realized during all their time together; the embraces changed somehow, they had been evolving under his very nose and he failed to notice until this very moment.   Gone was his nervous, desperate half-leap into Victor’s chest before he took the ice for the Onsen on Ice performance, when he flung his arms around Victor’s neck and promised that he would be the tastiest pork cutlet bowl, demanding of Victor to promise to watch him, when Victor simply replied, “Of course. I love pork cutlet bowls.”

 

Oh God.  That L Word.   _ Again _ .

 

Why hadn’t Yuuri noticed it then?  How had he allowed his ridiculous comparisons of finding Eros through food to go so far that he would miss those goddamn Signals, the meaning of what Victor had said?  Yuuri was a complete Idiot. What an idiot! If he was the pork cutlet bowl, and Victor loved pork cutlet bowls…

 

Yuuri always knew for whom he danced the Eros program.  It had only ever been for Victor; if the audience experienced it too, it was almost superfluous because the only audience he cared about was the man who was now gasping for air with his body wrapped around him in bed, responding to his every touch, and Yuuri figured Something Else out.  True, it was still a bit nebulous in his brain, the opposing force of other thoughts shouting within that the notion was impossible, that it could never be true, that Victor wanting him had no deeper meaning than satiating some physical need. That negativity was warring with the new and fuzzy notion that maybe it was  _ Victor _ who craved to be embraced, that he needed reassurances of his own, that he  _ wanted _ to be Stolen.  Why him? Why, when Victor Nikiforov had the world at his fingertips, had fans and sponsors and Beautiful People, likely a full stable of same at the ready for his beckon and call?

 

Surely, Victor Nikiforov had all of that, and probably much, much more.  

 

But Victor Nikiforov had been cast aside in favor of becoming an Idiot Coach.  An Idiot Coach to one single Idiot Student. 

 

And then, even that had been cast aside here and there, when Victor assured him that he wouldn’t go easy on him, because that was how he showed his love.  When Victor assured him that he did, in fact, love pork cutlet bowls. When he had a look of surprise that Yuuri would never forget when he asked for him to just be Victor, and not anyone or anything else, Yuuri was definitely an Idiot not to notice the meanings behind Victor’s messages and expressions, and words, and his attention: that Victor needed an Idiot like him more than his medals and career and fans and admirers...and  _ lovers _ ?

 

Did Victor want a lover?  And, more specifically, did he really want  _ him _ , his Idiot Student, to be his Lover?

 

Did Victor  _ need _ to be loved?  Did he  _ need _ to be Stolen like this?

 

“Yuuri…,”  came the raspy voice against his chest, the man’s arms holding fast to his body as if he never wanted to let go, “...please…I need...”

 

Yuuri’s heart skipped a few beats as he leaned down to plant a gentle kiss upon the top of Victor’s head, the aroma of his shampoo and the softness of the strands keeping his own flames in a constant state of ignition.  He knew what he had to do now, he finally understood: Victor’s embraces were not only to allay Yuuri’s anxious brain, but they were to fill some apparent void in this beautiful man’s heart. Yuuri wanted him, he Stole Him, and, fuck it, he Loved Him.  

 

God, how he Loved him.  Who would be so cruel as to deny love to this beautiful creature?  If Yuuri ever found out who was responsible for that, he would never forgive them.  If anyone,  _ anyone _ , was to treat Victor with anything less than care and love, like Stolen Treasure, they would meet his wrath.  If anyone was to look at Victor with shallow lust in their eyes, to objectify him as a trophy, Yuuri might just have to show them that Victor was very much  _ spoken for _ , and how dare they deign to look at him like that?  Yuuri would show them all. He could show them all, that Victor needed and wanted only him.  He could show them by taking his Stolen Victor in his arms and kissing the living  _ fuck _ out of him for the whole damn World to see.

 

Oh.

 

_ For the whole damn world to see _ .

 

Sort of like kissing him after the free, in front of a packed arena, aired on international media.

 

“Yuuri…”

 

Oh, Yuuri Understood.  He didn’t 100% believe it was happening, but he understood so much now as he removed his fingers to discreetly reach for the towel as he lay Victor down underneath him. He showered Victor’s pretty face with butterfly kisses as he reached for the small square package that landed a bit further away upon the bed.  “I’m here, Victor. I...Know.”

 

“Yuu...ri…” 

 

“What do you need?”

 

“I need you, Yuuri…”

 

Those four words, even perhaps more telling than another set of four words Yuuri wasn’t quite ready to say himself, or maybe even to hear from Victor, those four words were like a command his body could not help but to follow as if by some instinctual rote response that knocked the last of his negative thoughts away.  Victor needed  _ him _ .  

 

And so Yuuri would Give. 

 

Victor was staring with that sexy half-lidded expression, breaths heavy and cheeks flushed pink, and Yuuri felt his own lips curl into something similar to a sheepish smile.  “I...please tell me if it’s not good...I don’t really-”

 

He was hushed with a kiss before the lips moved against his own in tender words:  “There’s no such thing as ‘not good’ with you, Yuuri.” The words were spoken as Yuuri felt a hand within his own, taking the wrapped protection from his trembling grasp.  Another small movement brought with it the sound of the foil being torn, and before Yuuri really registered what was happening, Victor’s hand was around him and the barrier was being slid down.    “Now make me fully yours.”

 

Yuuri pressed his lips to Victor’s mouth, tugging a bit before sliding his tongue into the welcoming warmth, and Victor returned the kiss with another soft moan.  He found the bottle of lubricant once more, hissing through the liplock with Victor as he touched himself with the cool liquid, the friction of his hand on his own groin warming it a little before he moved to settle himself fully between the long legs that were bent at knee.  Victor continued to kiss him with all the gentle reassurance Yuuri could ever need, and Yuuri did his best to reciprocate with his newly found understanding of the man who was not Victor Nikiforov his Unattainable Idol in this moment, who was not his Idiot Coach who kissed him after the free.  

 

This was the Victor who only needed to be Stolen and Treasured by Yuuri.

 

He took himself in hand, his body rock-hard and pulsing, his heart beating wildly as he positioned himself, tucking the sensitive head gently between the chasm of Victor’s flesh.  He felt the partner’s breath hitch toward the sensation during their kiss, and Yuuri stopped too; even the barrier of the condom and the not-quite fully-warmed gel did not lessen the feeling of the hot pressure of that glorious skin around him, and, dear gods, he’d never been this far or this close with anyone, and, oh shit, how would he be able to last at all?  He’d barely done anything and it was already like this! He took a couple of breaths that were way more strained than intended; Victor recovered himself and began to place chaste kisses laced with what he thought might be more whispered Russian words, words that sounded so sweet in that rough sounding-language, as if the syrup of Victor’s voice could turn the most sour of phrase into the purest of honeyed bliss.

 

It was a lulling sound, that voice, full of warmth and affection, and Yuuri pushed further inside, the tight vice of Victor’s body leaving him no need for his hand anymore to hold himself in place.  Victor’s breath hitched again with quick inhale, and he had thrown his head back just enough so that Yuuri could place his lips to the exposed skin and feel the racing pulse in Victor’s neck. Oh, God, there was no one in the world more gorgeous than was Victor; he was so uniquely beautiful, and so hot inside, and Yuuri had barely crossed the first threshold of his body and it was almost too much sensory overload already, and yet, he wanted More.  He pulled back a little, the drag of flesh against his near-painful erection causing his own breath to stutter as he angled his hips to push back in slowly, a little further against the resistance of Victor’s body. The motion caused the partner’s hands to grab fistfuls of his own flesh where his thighs met his ass, and Victor held him firmly in place, a signal for him to stay motionless as Victor shifted underneath him slightly, taking pronounced breaths and humming almost to himself.

 

Oh, the sweet Torture of that wordless direction spoken only through flesh!  Yuuri’s body was desperately begging to move, but he knew enough to know that he had to allow for this hopefully brief reprieve for Victor.  His own curiosity had taught him that lesson, with the late-night purchase of a non-representational vibe off the internet and a bribe of pizza money for Phichit to go out with his other friends on the day it arrived, the trade offered under the guise of needing some quiet study time.  Technically, it wasn’t a lie. He had wanted to know, because he didn’t really know what his own preferences would be, because he didn’t think of himself as much of a Sexually Desirable Being in general, so he had wanted to know what to expect in the unlikely event that some Chad would actually want to sleep with him and that he, in just as unlikely a scenario, happened to agree.  So Yuuri found out that there could be pain involved at first, at the very least discomfort, and he googled enough and forumed enough online to have a very good understanding that this was all part of taking care of one’s partner, to ensure that his discomfort was not ignored. At the time, he figured he would be the one to bear the invasion of flesh into his own, thinking no man would ever provide for him the opportunity to do the opposite, and his own lack of confidence would prevent him from voicing his own desires with a partner.  So he had prepared for that assumed eventuality on his own, learning how to wait and adjust and finally cross from pain into what he assumed was pleasure. It was fine. He knew what to expect, at least, and it was fine, or, it would have been.

 

But This…

 

Victor was always surprising him.  Yuuri didn’t think that the first person he took to bed would be the only person he ever had really wanted; not in his wildest dreams did he think that this would be happening to an underwhelming person like him.  He didn’t ever think that Unrealistic Fantasy #2 would become the Reality that it was in this bed with his body painfully hard and aching to move in answer to the fireworks that were erupting in the blood as it coursed through his veins.  He could barely breathe; it was all he could do to focus on keeping his lower half still as Victor shifted underneath him, as the man continued to murmur words that Yuuri couldn’t comprehend with every soft, chaste kiss Yuuri dared to leave upon that graceful neck and amazing chest.    Yuuri may not have actually known what his own preferences were to this extent, but, boy was he getting there. He couldn’t imagine doing this with anyone but Victor, and he didn’t want to. It had always been Victor.

 

He could feel the muscles in his arms start to strain from propping himself up; he didn’t know how much longer he could teeter on the precipice.  Victor’s breaths were deliberate, and Yuuri could feel that he was trying to relax around him, but, shit, it was still so damn tight, and he didn’t know for how much longer he could hold himself back from answering his body’s instinctual call.

 

Just as he was thinking his resolve could take no more, Victor suddenly and sharply canted his hips upward as he pulled him forward with those hands that were still firmly in place upon his ass, and,  _ dear gods! _ , he felt himself be pulled impossibly deeper into the partner, and the fireworks bloomed even more.   Oh fuck. He actually did groan aloud toward the sensation of being well and fully seated inside, and, damn it, he needed to  _ move _ , and, oh dear lord, was he actually going to die like this? And what did Victor want?  What should he actually do  _ now _ ?!

 

“Yuu...ri…”

 

Yuuri’s breath sounded like gasps as he tried to form a word for an answer to Victor’s call of his name, but all he could manage was a cracked sounding “Hmm…”  His heart was racing, and he felt as though his blood was heating to a level that could not possibly be considered to be healthy, sweat tickling his hairline and making some of the strads stick to his forehead, and he must look like a Hot Fucking Mess of barely-there-self-control, and-

 

“I-I’m ready malysh...you don’t have to wait anymore…”

 


	7. Chapter Seven

  
  


_ “I-I’m ready malysh...you don’t have to wait anymore…” _

 

Oh God.

 

Was this It?  Was that the permission?  His brain suddenly felt hazy as soon as the words escaped Victor’s throat and, without his mind’s own permission granted to his body, he felt himself pulling back and thrusting forward firmly into the tight heat to fully bury himself again.  Victor’s hands started to roam from his ass to his back and he pulled back again and pushed in a little more slowly this time, relishing in the friction as every centimeter became sheathed inside Victor anew. And Victor…

 

Yuuri dared to open his eyes to look at him, and,  _ fuck _ , he almost came from the sight of Victor’s brow furrowed in concentration, his eyes squeezed shut and his lower lip trapped by his teeth.  There were a few errant threads of hair that had become dampened with perspiration, and Yuuri further dared to gently sweep them from the middle of his forehead and back to the left side of that pretty face.  He couldn’t resist kissing that forehead, one of those places toward which he had learned that Victor had some serious Vanity Issues, and Yuuri loved that. 

 

Because he Loved Victor.

 

He heard Victor’s sharp intake of breath as he laid down the gentle kiss, and he could picture the reflexive pout that was absolutely forming on his lips.  Sure enough, it was there, and Yuuri kissed it away as he shifted his hips back again, tempting fate by pulling almost completely out, and Victor whined and uttered something messy and unintelligible until Yuuri gave into his own need and nested firmly within once more.

 

The pout was gone and was replaced by the lips parting in a rumble of sound that may or may not have contained part of his name, and Yuuri loved this.  The stubbornly fine floss of a few errant hairs found their way again to the pale forehead from the inertial movement of Victor’s body as it received him, and again Yuuri pushed them back into place before he wove his hands through that soft hair and rested his fingertips on the skin of Victor’s scalp.

 

“Da…”

 

Oh, he loved that sound, and he loved even more the permission it seemed to grant that allowed him to grip Victor’s head more firmly, hair threaded through his fingers as he massaged Victor’s scalp, careful not to recklessly pull at that lovely hair, for fear that Victor might have a mini-freakout that it might just fall out within Yuuri’s hands.

 

He drank in another wet kiss from that formerly pouted mouth, and he went further, caressing every part of Victor’s face with sweet little pecks, from the perfectly set chin and cheekbones, to the charming pink tip of his nose, and, because he could, and because this was Unrealistic Fantasy #2 come to actual reality, he kissed that forehead again which earned him a huffing little laugh from the partner.

 

“Yuu~ri…,”  Victor whined, albeit feebly, because Yuuri took that moment to move inside once more, and the assumed protest about the attention he was giving to Victor’s forehead dissolved with the moan that followed the deeper penetration.  God, so beautiful. So  _ hot _ .  

 

He loved this, and hoped that he could make himself last, feeling emboldened by his own tender teasing.  “Everything is still okay, Victor,” he whispered, kissing the expanse of that smooth and definitely unwrinkled forehead one more time, “Everything…”

 

“Really…?”

 

Another little thrust to cater to his own whims and test his own strength to keep it together to make Victor feel good.  “Yeah...really…”

 

“Mmmm...Okay…”

 

He loved that Victor would spend a full five minutes in the bathroom mirror scrunching and re-scrunching his face to ensure that he wasn’t getting wrinkles, how he carefully examined all the expiration dates on his various skin serums before using them, even if he had carefully examined the  _ same damn thing _ the night before and surely the date hadn’t changed in the time that elapsed between sleeping and waking.  It was like a Religion to him to ensure that they still had their active ingredients in full effect to prevent those wrinkles he was desperately afraid would appear and make him look “Gasp~do I look  _ old _ today, Yuu~~ri?  Do I? Is any of this really making a difference?!  Did I spend too much time in the sun yesterday? Is that a  _ freckle _ ?  On my  _ face _ ?!  Yuuri, you horrible man!  This is a  _ crisis _ and why are you  _ laughing _ at me?!”  

 

Yuuri loved that Victor worried about going bald, that he reacted like a Drama Queen the second Yuuri’s hand came anywhere near the top of his head, how he unconsciously would raise a couple of tentative fingers to his silver locks whenever a television ad came on advertising some shop-by-phone As Seen on TV miracle cure for male pattern baldness, even if Victor didn’t understand all of the Japanese sales pitch.  Yuuri loved that.

 

Because he Loved Victor.

 

Yuuri loved that there was a row of Ridiculousness in the form of “product” residing in his bathroom in Hasetsu, and he loved being comfortable enough with Victor to tease him about it and roll his eyes and deadpan the man into scandalized noises of mock distress over premature balding and premature aging and premature wrinkling:  Yuuri loved that.

 

Because he Loved Victor.

 

The Victor Nikiforov in his posters and magazine ads never had those ridiculous fears, the assured gazes that exuded confidence in his own perfection with each sultry pose for the camera,  or in his beautifully crafted expression worn to woo the audience from the ice, the moment cleverly captured by a sports photographer and turned into fan merchandise to be  _ bought  _ like a Commodity.

 

And, oh, Yuuri had bought it.  He’d consumed it, along with Victor’s legions of other fans; he’d bought into the mystique of Victor Nikiforov, Russia’s National Treasure.  Of course he bought it, hook, line, and sinker, and in plenty of fanboy moments of “Take my money, Bitch, and give me that edition of Vogue” that featured Victor Nikiforov in a fashion spread for some probably famous designer that he ought to have recognized by name but never did.

 

Idol Victor, unlike the Victor he knew now, never scolded him for not giving a shit about the clothes he was selling by draping them over his impeccable body and letting his image be captured with expert lighting and hints of makeup and maybe a brush of glitter on the apples of those perfect cheeks…

 

Victor met his next thrust with a rougher sounding grunt and Yuuri barely kept himself from reaching the peak that was dangerously near already, but he couldn’t keep from escaping a sound from his own throat foreign to his ears, a near growl of primal urge delivered through voice and a couple of insistent thrusts and an involuntary move to loop one of his arms around Victor’s knee to push in as hard as Victor had pushed upward.  If this wasn’t Ecstasy, he wasn’t sure what else on earth would qualify: Victor had given up his gasping for air in favor of a near constant stream of “da’s” and “yeses” and, fuck!, “harders”; it was so raw and needy and Yuuri had to bite his own tongue to prohibit his own Filthy Thoughts from becoming verbalized to join in the fray of Victor’s vocal responses. Dear Lord, jerking off to his posters had never been this intense: the posters never actually talked back to him, and Yuuri’s imagination had Victor’s responses somewhat limited into occasional utterances of his name here and there, but it was never much more than that at all.  

 

And this, oh This...the incoherent and accidental noises, the Russian words mixed with English and,  _ shit, _ was that  _ French? _ , and the demanding upward thrusts that pulled Yuuri in further, threatening a premature release with every damn one of them.  This unfettered and free person was not Russia’s National Treasure at all: he was Yuuri’s Stolen Treasure. 

 

That’s it. He had done it.

 

Stolen.  

 

Stolen from all other Admirers, stolen from their very sport, stolen from any remaining modesty.  Stolen, and his alone, his to snap his hips into, his to shower with kisses, his to bite a severe mark into the pale collar bone without a care for how much concealer it might take to cover it up:  this Victor, unraveling as their pace between the sheets quickened, this Victor, this Beauty, was entirely  _ his _ .

 

And Yuuri loved that.

 

Because he Loved Victor.

 

Oh, how he loved that feeling of taking, and of Victor being taken by him.  Oh, how it Provoked him into leaving more bites and nips that were rewarded with cursing in probably all the languages Victor knew.  Oh, how he loved how he learned that Victor seemed to get more into it whenever he’d decide to tempt fate and shove his body forward with a force quite a few degrees removed from gentle.  Oh, how he loved it that Victor could arch almost completely off the bed as needful “Haaah!s” and whines escaped, and as he swallowed and gulped the air from Yuuri’s mouth whenever they kissed.

 

And Yuuri loved this, this losing of care for propriety, the occasional drip of his own sweat that would land in a jittered droplet upon the soft white of Victor’s skin when it fell from his own temple or from the tip of his own mussed hair, he loved this, because he Loved Victor.  He loved it when a naughty little word in Japanese escaped his now non-existent restraint, and he could see Victor’s reaction to it in the pulse of his reddened and thickened erection that caused a small gathering of liquid to expel from its slit. Yuuri was mesmerized as it threatened to drip down, until he impulsively encircled Victor with a grasp meant to be firm to catch the fluid upon his knuckles before it fell into that very sexy and very precisely groomed patch of tiny silver hairs that only a person this physically close would even be able to see.

 

“Ahhh...malysh…close...already...” was the response to Yuuri’s tugs of that heated flesh, his coordination working on some sort of autopilot that allowed for him to keep Victor well and truly pinned down by the thrusts of his hips.  He had settled into a more urgent rhythm of push and pull whilst he held fast in a white-knuckled grip to Victor’s leg at the crook of knee. The infinite pleasure, in what had to have been an overdose of chemical endorphins, and all of the attacks Victor’s voice and gorgeous hot body were laying upon his senses conspired together to rid from him any sense of caution.   He didn’t have the caution within him anymore to be concerned about any bruising that might remain afterward as he angled his body to search for inner depths he hoped he could find and find fast.

 

“Da... _ there! _ ...oh God..right there…!”.

 

Gods, he found it. Oh damn, now that he had, he could see and feel the muscular strength in Victor’s body as he writhed beneath, and the Miraculous Erotic Vision before him stoked the flame that had been settling deep within his belly, under duress of sheer willpower to disallow for him to come too soon.  In response, he rolled his palm over the head of Victor’s length, dragging a finger right against the vein that had the partner clenching and holding him inside as he spread the intimate moisture to slicken the swollen skin with Victor’s own essence. The sheets were coming detached from the bed, there would probably be noise complaints, maybe, and none of it mattered because Yuuri  _ didn’t fucking care,  _  as long as he could bring Victor off with his hand while he joined their bodies in rapid snaps of hip to keep hitting that pleasurable space deep within.  The only thing he cared for in this moment was Victor, his satisfaction, maybe even his pleasure-pain, the wild thoughts making his own body churn with impending orgasm, but  _ goddamn it _ , if there was one thing he knew, he knew he had stamina, and  _ fuck no _ , he was  _ not _ going to come before his Stolen Treasure would have release.

 

He felt the tell-tale pulsing of anatomy within his grasp and he kept the pace with his hips to feed Victor’s salacious groans; God, he was hot as  _ fuck _ , and damn, he looked lost in his own world, lust-driven and ecstatically wild, and oh so Beautiful and Free.  He knew Victor was close, he knew that it wouldn’t be long and he couldn’t take his eyes off of him as more precome spilled upon his hand, hot and wet, a definite preamble to Victor’s end.   

 

“Bic...to..ru…,”  the name spilled from Yuuri’s mouth, sounding desperate in his own accent laden voice, but once it had been spoken once, a rush of “Victor….Victor….Bictoru…” immediately followed with every urgent thrust and twist of flesh in his hand.

 

“Vit--ya..”  Victor rasped, almost choking out the sound, but Yuuri suddenly was laser focused upon it as Victor struggled with his breath and squeezed his eyes shut,  “Call me...Vitya, Yuuri….Vitya….”

 

Oh  _ fuck _ .

 

Just when Yuuri thought he could not be more turned on, could not be Provoked further, the room and the surroundings, and the dim ambient light, and the rucked up bedsheets all but disappeared, and his entire being was focused on that one command.  

 

And just who would be be to deny Victor this request?

 

“Vit...ya…”

 

Oh, the sharp intake of breath from the named almost sent Yuuri over the edge, and Victor’s body clenched down so completely around him that it was almost painful to keep his hurried pace, and, the word was not spoken, but all Yuuri could hear in his own head was again.   _ Again _ .   _ Again! _

 

“Vitya…,” he managed to say it without faltering; Victor’s eyes shot open for the first time in what had felt like an eternity, and, this time, he heard the word spoken aloud by his Stolen Treasure, and Yuuri  _ could _ satisfy him, he  _ would  _ satisfy him, he could  _ love _ him, he  _ did _ Love Him and-

 

“Again...Yuuri…”

 

“Vitya…,” oh God, could he say what he almost-didn’t-stop-himself just now from saying?  Could he let out what he really wanted in this moment? Would it be okay? Ah, fuck it. “Come for me, Vitya…”

 

And like an arrow shot with precision and grace, he hit Victor hard inside and pumped his length and,  _ oh! _ , the sight of his Victor, no, his  _ Vitya, _ ...it was too much,  _ fuck! _ , it was too much!  He felt the thick hot ribbons of come coat his hand and then paint the canvas of Victor’s work-of-art abs, and, oh dear lord, he felt his own rush approach as he pushed through the impossible clenching of the tight heat around him;  the Vision before him fed his need so quickly that he could no longer stave off the churning heaviness in his groin that thickened his length. It caused more desperate efforts from Vitya to catch his own breath with the added friction of the thickness combined with what Yuuri had to assume was overstimulation.  With one final hard thrust, he felt his sweat-soaked skin electrify, his eyes roll back, and the sensation of releasing into something so hot and wet and tight...it was as though air and light and sound and Everything Else disappeared, and it was only the feeling of desperate release, of his hot spend flooding the reservoir at the tip of the thin barrier between their melded mutual flesh.  The feeling was the only thing that was tethering him to this tiny corner of Earth in bed with this incredibly gorgeous, incredibly ridiculous, incredibly endearing man…

 

“...Vitya…”

 

The next thing he knew, his arms felt like jelly, and he released his grip upon Victor’s leg which fell listlessly down to the mattress; he felt himself soften, a dull ache a reminder of the insanely tight pressure of their coupling.  He collapsed upon Victor’s chest, not caring that it was wet and messy with come and sweat and Yuuri Didn’t Care, because he was so, so hot, and the partner’s skin was practically searing more heat into him as he harshly inhaled and exhaled to gain air to lungs that felt suddenly devoid of it, all of it in synch with Victor’s own ragged breathing.  

 

And so Yuuri lay upon Victor’s chest; he could hear Victor’s heartbeat and he could feel it strongly pulsing against his own temple.  He focused on the sound; Victor was quiet now but for his breathing, and he was still but for the rise and fall of his chest. Yuuri was exhausted, spent, but calm as they lay together, and, oh, he could get used to this.  He could get used to making love until he had Victor coming apart and then falling into a blissful heap like this. He could get used to calling the man Vitya. Maybe. At least when they were alone together, he could try, because it seemed Really Important, and maybe he needed to figure that out once his brain wasn’t mush and his body could actually move again.  Oh, he could get used to this, the Sin of Stealing Victor away from the World. 

He next felt the mild sensation of Victor’s arms encircling him, one hand lazily pushing back his sweat-soaked hair.  He was still inside, softening by the second, but unable to actually move. Gently, Victor shifted beneath him and he slipped out, and Yuuri’s eyelids felt like lead, the whole of his body a heavy leaden blanket, and still the gentle hands combed through his messy hair and rubbed soothing circles on his back as they quieted together.

 

“Yuuri…?”

 

Oh.  Sleep was near, so very near.  The tug of unconsciousness was like a Siren’s Call, and Victor’s lulling, gentle touches were carrying him away...if he could just have five minutes.  Five minutes more of this sated bliss with Victor, and Yuuri thought he could have the World.

 

Maybe he already did.

 

“Malysh...is everything…okay?

 

Was everything okay?  Ah...this  _ was _ bliss.  Of course everything was okay.  Wait. He wasn’t actually talking, was he?  He opened his mouth to speak, but his throat felt suddenly parched, and all he could eke out was a hum that hopefully signaled his current state of relaxed mind.

 

He heard a soft huff of laughter and the hand that was rubbing the circles upon the sweat-slickened skin of his back travelled lower, enlarging the scope of its journey until it came to rest on his naked posterior.  There was no purpose in the touch, only a presence there, a gentle reminder that he was still well and truly naked and sprawled and entangled within all of Victor’s limbs, warm, comforted, tired…

 

And so they lay like this for a while, and Yuuri selfishly indulged in all of the light movements of Victor’s hands, and his breath finally calmed to synch together with the elder’s.  It was peaceful like this; gone was the urgency of their final moments of passion, gone was the world outside the window, gone was the buzzing of the notifications from Victor’s phone,  gone was the very public kiss after the free, in front of a packed arena, aired on international media. There was only the hum of the heating unit in the room, the occasional muffled noise from the corridor, the soft clink of the ice melting in the Champagne bucket that shifted the empty bottle inside, and the sound of them, of their breathing, of the light touches of Victor’s hands.

 

And Yuuri knew that he should move, that he should not wait too much longer to visit the ensuite to take care of things and shower, and that Victor also probably wanted to bathe.  But Yuuri didn’t want to leave the bed, he didn’t want to leave the tangle of Victor’s limbs, or the dampness of his skin that carried the scent of those ridiculously expensive soaps.  He didn’t want to break the Spell; there was a tiny thought niggling in his brain that this had all been a dream, or that there was no real reason that he should be in bed with Victor, that he was just there, and convenient, and maybe Victor just hadn’t gotten laid in awhile and figured sleeping with him was better than sleeping alone or jerking off in the shower…

 

“Yuuri...are you asleep?”

 

No, but he was, almost; maybe he was dozing a little as he focused on the movement of Victor’s hands and the sensation of his nose and lips in his hair, and as he tried to keep his brain from ruining what was one of the best nights of his life.  

 

Five more minutes.  Please.

 

“Mmnoo...” he heard himself murmur in an almost disembodied sound, and that little huff of laughter tickled his temple before a soft kiss was placed there.

 

“Can I tell you something?”

 

A question in a whisper, one that Yuuri wasn’t sure if he actually heard, or perhaps it was his near-unconsciousness toying with the reliability of his senses, but, for this moment, he chose to believe that he heard it, that he was still in bed with Victor, that he’d done all of those  _ Things _ ...he believed that he heard it, so he tried his best to respond.  “Yeah…”

 

The hands moved again; a little pat upon his rear before Victor shifted a little more beneath him until Yuuri felt himself moved effortlessly upon his side, still within Victor’s arms, their chests still connected, close enough for their heartbeat to be felt by the other as Victor hugged him with a bit more intent, burying his face into his neck before he spoke.  “Becoming your Idiot Coach was the best decision I’ve made in a long time. A very long time.”

 

The words were spoken so softly, so privately, that Yuuri thought he might have to hold his breath to be able to hear them at all.  He wasn’t sure if should make an effort to respond, so he chose to let the words hang unanswered, wanting only to listen to Victor’s voice.

 

“I…”  Victor faltered, took a little breath, and, again, that private little huff of laughter that tickled the skin upon Yuuri’s neck where Victor had buried his face.  “I…,” he began anew, “I...hope this won’t be…”

 

Victor seemed to be struggling with his words; perhaps English was failing him again, and perhaps there was something he needed that Yuuri, in his current state of hazy semi-wakefulness, could not ascertain.  “What is it, Victor?” he managed to whisper back, and he somehow managed to cope with gravity a little and bring his own arm upward to settle upon Victor’s hip as they lay on their sides.

 

Another huff of breath.  “This...wasn’t just for tonight, right?”

 

What?  Wait... _ what?! _

 

“Victor-”

 

“Vitya,”  the man interrupted softly, “please, call me Vitya.”

 

Yuuri felt a bit more awake and alert, heat rushing to his cheeks.  How was he going to survive that? Yuuri couldn’t help but to think that if he said the diminutive of Victor’s name, word-association  _ alone _ would just flash him back to their passionate completion, and he wouldn’t be able to control himself.  

 

However, Victor clutched him impossibly closer, waiting for him to say something, and, what?  Was he trembling? Or was that Yuuri’s own heart starting to race again? Their bodies were so close it was almost impossible to tell.  Maybe Victor needed to hear it, maybe this Victor in his arms needed those reassurances the Living Legend would never need. 

 

Maybe this was one of those times when Yuuri needed to open up more and give.  It might not be enough just to know that he Loved Victor. He might have to say...Something.

 

“Vit-ya…”

 

It sounded awkward coming from his lips, but the embrace tightened again, strong arms and legs wrapping themselves around Yuuri’s body, as if he was afraid that Yuuri might bolt from the bed and make the man swear an oath never to speak again about what happened there between them-

 

Wait.

 

Was Victor... _ afraid  _ that would happen?  Was he thinking that this was some kind of one-night stand or something, fueled by adrenaline from his Silver medal finish with the Free and his amped up Eros performance form the Short and nothing more?

 

No.  Yuuri was used to his own irrational insecurities, he was used to thinking that he would never be good enough to stand beside Victor as his equal.  He was used to thinking of himself as some male version of the biggest Plain Jane ever to walk the planet, but how could Victor think that he would just be able to rise from the disheveled bed and go back to simply being an Idiot Student of this Idiot Coach?

 

No.  Things  _ had  _ changed now.  He had been anxious about what that might mean, and he still assumed that this was a temporary arrangement, but not that temporary, right?  He had Time. Yuuri still had time to spend with Victor until the Grand Prix Final, provided he managed not to fuck up royal and get there, but still.

 

Yuuri  _ did _ have time.  And, for that time, he would accept the change.  He’d accept that he could share in more embraces like this, right up and until Victor would decide he’d proved what he set out to prove, established himself as a legitimate Coach, and boarded a plane back to Russia and out of his life for good.

 

For now, though...

 

“Vitya,” he said again, “change...is not a bad thing.”

 

Really, Yuuri?  Really? Would Victor be able to understand his Meaning with just that?  God, how useless of a partner can he be? But, it wasn’t as if he could say aloud his true feelings, that he Loved this insecure, vulnerable, sexy,  _ real  _ Victor.   It was one thing to understand it in his own mind just how big of a disappointment loomed in the future after the Grand Prix series was over, but it was too much of a risk to say it aloud.  He couldn’t do that, no matter that he wanted to; the urge for self-preservation was still too great.

 

Soft lips touched his neck before he heard Victor’s voice again.  “I said I would try my best if you wanted me to be your boyfriend.  But I think I will just try my best to be your Vitya instead...okay?”

 

Yuuri felt his breath hitch without warning, not prepared for the softly spoken words, not realizing until this moment that Victor had always been Listening to him, Waiting for him, meeting him halfway when Yuuri thought the distance might be simply to wide for him to cross.  He wasn’t supposed to cry in this situation, was he? He blinked the sting away before it became Too Late, not wanting to ruin this moment and make Victor worry again. 

 

This is what Yuuri wanted, a Victor that was only for him, and here Victor was offering that, and maybe even wanting it for himself.  

 

So Yuuri dared to put his Faith once more in his Idiot Coach, his Vitya.

 

“Do your best then.”

 


End file.
